


Footie Fic Collection

by sparksfly7



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Catharsis, Celebrations, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 52,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/pseuds/sparksfly7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of football ficlets and oneshots, primarily Real Madrid and Spain NT.</p><p>Latest: <i>Pull Me Back to Earth</i> (Torres/Griezmann)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Untitled Iker/Goal post drabble (Casillas/Goal post)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in Madrid has their superstitions.

Everyone in Madrid has their superstitions.

Cris has to put on his shin pads left and then right, and his boots the other way around.

Sergio has to make the sign of the cross before he goes onto the pitch.

Mesut murmurs a quiet prayer before every game.

As for Iker, he always touches the goal frame before the game starts, brushes his fingers against the strong white frame of the post. Sergio laughs at him for this, teases him that he's like a rookie priest trying to perform a blessing, but Iker just ignores him or gives him a level glare. Sometimes he simply says, "It helps me."

And during the game, when a shot comes off the crossbar or what looks like a certain goal rebounds off the upright, Iker breathes in relief and touches the post again, thanks it for doing what he could not to save his team.

Maybe it's silly to do his little goal-touching ritual before games (sometimes he feels adventurous and hangs off the crossbar for a bit, thinks of easier days in his childhood, of monkey bars and playground swings and not having to carry a world of pressure and expectations on his back), but everyone has their superstitions and Iker thinks that his just might save the game someday.

And the thought of that is worth any amount of teasing from Sergio any day.


	2. Never Been Better (Bale/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth just stands there and looks at him for a moment, because this is _Cristiano Ronaldo_ , and it’s no secret to anyone that Gareth has idolized him for...well, he’s lost count by this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I exaggerated [Gareth Bale’s hero worship of Cris](http://cr7-kaka.tumblr.com/tagged/Gareth%20Bale), but not to a very great extent. If you’re interested in a continuation, let me know!

“Hey.” Cristiano is all smiles as he pats Gareth on the back and then offers his hand. “Welcome to Madrid.”

Gareth just stands there and looks at him for a moment, because this is _Cristiano Ronaldo_ , and it’s no secret to anyone that Gareth has idolized him for...well, he’s lost count by this point.

“Uh, Gareth?” Cristiano cocks his head to the side, looking confused and – well, duh, it’s Cristiano – still ridiculously good. “You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Gareth finds his voice somehow. “Better than fine. Great. I’m great. Super great.”

“That’s good,” Cristiano says, smiling again, softer this time, obviously amused. Gareth notices that he’s still holding out his hand, and Gareth quickly takes it, locking his fingers around Cristiano’s.

“You’ve got a strong grip there,” Cristiano says, wincing slightly.

“S-sorry!” Gareth says, mortified, instantly releasing Cristiano’s hand. God, could he be more of an idiot if he tried?

“It’s okay,” Cristiano says, flexing his fingers, a little stiffly. “I’m used to getting my hand crushed when talking to the new players.” He grins at Gareth, a little teasingly, but mainly just friendly and open. He really is as nice as they all say.

They’ve met in the Premier League before, of course, but never at the same end of the pitch, something that Gareth has wished would change, has wanted to change, for years. And now, somehow, still rather unbelievably, it’s happened.

He’s playing for Real Madrid; he’s playing with _Cristiano Ronaldo_. (Well, not yet, not in a match anyway, but Gareth knows it’ll happen soon, can cross dates off his calendar until the day, and.) It almost feels like a dream; he feels an urge to pinch himself just to make sure it’s real. (No pun intended.)

“You alright?” Cristiano asks again, sounding more concerned this time.

 _Great, Gareth, he tells himself_ , his inner voice sounding remarkably sarcastic even to himself. _What an amazing first impression you’re making._

“I’m sorry I’m being an idiot,” Gareth blurts out. “It’s just that…you’re so”— _Brilliant. Inspiring. Hot. Whoa, heel, boy._ —“ _great_. You’re...you’re _Cristiano Ronaldo_.”

Cristiano’s smile is a little wry this time. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.”

“No, no I mean—” Gareth makes a low sound of frustration, pissed off by his own stupid mouth. “You’re like. My idol. I mean, you’re my role model, I’ve always wished I could be the kind of player you are. And I, I still can’t believe I’m actually here. I feel so lucky to be able to play with you. It’s all I’ve wanted for-for so long.” He flushes, scuffs the grass with his shoe. “So, sorry if I’m acting like a star-struck fan.”

“It’s okay,” Cristiano says, gentler. “I get that a lot too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, Gareth notices, and he gets these laugh lines around his mouth. It doesn’t make him look old or anything, just adds some charm to his face. Not that he really needs it. Gareth’s charmed enough just by looking at him.

“I guess I’m sounding rather cocky,” Cristiano says, with a thoughtful quirk of his lips.

“No, you’re not,” Gareth says, being perfectly honest. “You’re – well, a really nice guy. Nothing like the papers say.” He swipes his tongue over his dry lips. “Not that I read the papers a lot. I mean, of course I read the papers, I like to read, but uh, the papers in England are really quite terrible.”

“They are,” Cristiano agrees. “A lot of things in England are quite terrible. The weather. The food.” His mouth pulls up at the corners. “Not the football though. That was great.”

“Yeah,” Gareth says. “I’m going to miss Tottenham. A lot.”

“It’s hard,” Cristiano says sympathetically, “to get used to a new team. It takes some time.”

Gareth wonders how long it’ll take for him to be able to talk like a normal person around Cristiano. Hopefully not long at all, because he really wants Cristiano to think of him as...well, he’s not sure what exactly, but definitely not the moron with a speech impediment that he’s being right now.

“You get lost in thought a lot,” Cristiano observes. “You’re not going to do that on the pitch, are you?” There’s a good-natured sparkle of humour in his eyes, Gareth notes, which takes away any sting from his comment.

“N-no,” Gareth says. “As long as you don’t talk to me, I’ll be fine.”

“Gee, that’s nice to hear,” Cristiano says, pressing a hand to his chest, as if he’s hurt.

Gareth kind of wants to die. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” Cristiano says, and then he pats Gareth on the back again, reassuring, not condescending. “You’re coming down with a case of Bernabéu fever. I can’t blame you.”

“This is the most embarrassed I’ve ever been in my entire life,” Gareth admits. “Except for that time my mom showed my baby pictures to all my teammates.”

“I’d like to see those someday,” Cristiano says, all bright eyes and crooked smile, and Gareth feels like he really might die, this time for a whole other reason than embarrassment. “You’re all red,” Cristiano notes. “Not to sound like a recording, but – you alright?”

“Yeah,” Gareth says. “I’m great. Super great.” He adds, with a lighter but fuller chest, upon Cristiano’s genuine concern and the Real Madrid crest on his shirt, on both their shirts, “Never been better.”


	3. Don't Think, Just Feel (Casillas/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five reasons why Iker likes having Cristiano as a bench buddy.
> 
> Also a character study. And some angst. And some humour. A potpourri, basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this as its own story, but I thought it's short enough that it makes more sense to put it here.

**Five reasons why Iker likes having Cristiano as a bench buddy**

**1.** Cristiano’s jokes are teasing but not hurtful; his wit is sharp but not cutting. He seems to see, somehow, where Iker has laid his boundary lines (even though Iker himself can’t say where they’re located), and he can come close, but he never crosses them. Cristiano is a lot smarter than people give him credit for, and Iker’s more than a little ashamed that not so long ago, he was one of those people. People who fell for stereotypes and judged without knowing, based their vision on images rather than the real thing. Iker’s cleared his eyes, though, learned to see with them rather than through glasses that let people see what they want to see rather than what’s really there, and he’s been amazed on more than one occasion by all the things he found.

 

 **2.** Cristiano has a knack for cheering Iker up when Iker didn’t even know that he needed cheering up. He makes fun of the opponent’s kits (“I’ve seen nicer things donated to Goodwill”), of the referee’s obsession with his whistle (“Oral fixation, much?”), of Sergio’s red card count (“I can think of better places for him to unleash his temper”). Iker finds himself smiling more than he has in a long time. Cristiano is amazing on the pitch, but he’s even more amazing off it, Iker thinks, in ways that many people have not been lucky enough to discover.

 

 **3.** Cristiano is every bit as intense as Iker about football, about Real Madrid, every bit as passionate. He expresses it more outwardly, usually, but Iker doesn’t blame him for that. Cristiano’s blood runs hotter than Iker’s, his temper more of a live wire, and it’s not a bad thing, it’s just who he is. And over the years, Iker has developed a genuine, deep affection for Cristiano, for who he is, not just what he does. Sometimes it surprises even himself a little, how much he has grown to care about Cristiano, and sometimes it alarms him a little too, because the last time that he had felt like this for someone...

It had not ended well, and although Iker doesn’t think about it anymore, has forced himself not to think about it anymore, it is inevitable that sometimes the pain washes over him again, reopens the old wounds and leaves him bleeding.

 

 **4.** Cristiano always gives Iker an apologetic sort of look when he gets subbed on, as if he’s saying _Sorry, man, I gotta go_ , even though Iker knows that he’s ecstatic about getting to play, that he can’t wait to run onto the pitch and help his team. Their team. The look though, Iker also knows, is not faked or perfunctory, because Cristiano is genuinely apologetic about having to leave him behind. Those chocolate brown eyes never contain pity though, and that is something else that hits Iker. Cristiano and him are so alike in many ways, and hardly anybody seems to realize it, including Iker himself for the longest time.

That’s why Cristiano understands him, Iker thinks. Because they’re very similar people when it comes to the game. They’re both leaders and symbols and martyrs. They take losses harder than everyone else because they put them onto their shoulders, try to carry the whole team and fight to bear the weight, no matter how heavy it is. Even though they play at opposite ends of the pitch, even though Iker’s job is to protect and Cristiano’s to attack, their hearts beat with the same rhythm: _winwinwin_ , _MadridMadridMadrid_. Or perhaps there is no difference, because in their hearts, those two words have become synonymous, even when the latter strays from the former, and they try their staggering best to force them back together.

 

 **5.** Cristiano always asks him to sign his match balls first. “Captain’s privilege,” he would say to their teammates, with that bright smile of his, and Iker would smile and ignore their playful complaints (“But I gave you two assists!” Gonzalo. “But you love me the most!” Marcelo. “But I have the nicest handwriting!” Sergio, at which everyone would crack up and the “debate” would end), even though he doesn’t feel like their captain anymore. He’s not out there, playing with them, positioning them during the game, giving pep talks during half time. He’s there physically, to an extent, but he isn’t _there_ , so what kind of captain does that make him?

“Why do you do that?” Iker asks Cristiano later.

“What?” Cristiano takes a swig from his water bottle, his hair damp and curling slightly. Iker’s fingers twitch, the way they do when he sees the opponent shooting. He wants to save this time too, except instead of a shot, it’s this moment, it’s Cristiano’s gaze, soft but keen, it’s the current in the air between them that makes Iker’s bones feel like jelly, too weak to support him.

“Ask me to sign your ball first all the time,” Iker says evenly, although he wants to tell Cristiano to stop playing dumb, because it’s not like he doesn’t know what Iker’s referring to. It’s not like he doesn’t know Iker.

“I told you, captain’s priv—”

“That’s not it and you know it,” Iker cuts him off.

A half-smile flickers across Cristiano’s face, a question and an answer all in one. “Maybe it’s just because I like you best.”

Iker’s heart thumps, embarrassingly loudly. He wonders if Cristiano hears it. “No, you don’t,” he says, with a smile to soften the statement. “We both know that.” Maybe Cristiano likes Kaká the best, maybe Marcelo, maybe Fábio. Whoever it is, it’s not Iker, and they both know that. Iker’s fine with it, too. Cristiano isn’t his favourite either; that would be Sergio, probably, or even Xavi on some days.

They’re not each other’s favourites, but they are each other’s pillars, each other’s security deposits, each other’s empaths, and maybe that’s even better.

“Fair enough,” Cristiano says with a chuckle. “Maybe it’s because we’re two sides of the same coin,” he says, his voice somehow light and heavy at the same time, and Iker almost gapes at him because it’s exactly what he would have said if he had the words for it.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,” Iker says. It’s not what he intended to say at all, but the words slip through his lips anyway, because although Cristiano isn’t his confidante, Iker knows he would make a great one.

“I don’t,” Cristiano says, not seeming surprised at the question at all. “I respect you. I admire you. I can’t say I envy you right now, but I certainly don’t pity you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Iker says softly.

“Maybe I would, if it were someone else,” Cristiano says thoughtfully. “But you’re not someone else. You’re Iker.” He says it simply, and yet it sounds all-encompassing somehow, as if ‘Iker’ is a word that holds some special significance, some universal definition that would explain everything.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Cristiano smiles, and this one is more of an answer than a question, although the answer is written in a language that Iker doesn’t understand.

It bothers him, because he thinks Cristiano understands him better than he understands Cristiano, and that’s not something that he’s used to. He’s good at reading people, and in contrast, not an easy person to read. And he likes it that way. It’s something constant and reassuring, something that he can fold over himself like a security blanket, safe underneath in the knowledge that it’s not easy for people to hurt him, because it’s not easy to understand him.

Cristiano, however, doesn’t fit into this equation that Iker’s carefully developed, and Iker doesn’t know what to do when it comes to him.

That bothers him, much like how a game plan has to completely change because of a red card or an injury, how there’s no way that meticulous planning and organizing can guarantee you the outcome you’re seeking.

“You think too much,” Cristiano says.

“You mean, I worry too much,” Iker says wryly.

“We all worry,” Cristiano says, with a shrug and an easy smile. “But you have to embrace the other side of life too. You have to relax, have some fun, forget about football sometimes.”

“And you’re the expert on that?” Iker raises an eyebrow.

Cristiano laughs. “Not quite, no,” he says, “but I’m learning.”

“Maybe you can teach me,” Iker says.

“Sure,” Cristiano agrees. “There are a lot of things I can teach you.”

Iker wonders if he’s reading Cristiano wrong, because he swears there’s an invitation somewhere in there, in the way his voice lowers ever so slightly and his eyes gleam with hidden promises.

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Don’t doubt me,” Cristiano says, with a playful smile, and Iker finds his lips pulling up too, involuntary, instinctive. Natural.

“Cristiano, I—” Iker starts, and then he hesitates, ponders over what he’s about to say. He’s not sure what he wants to say, to be honest, because he doesn’t know what he wants from Cristiano, with Cristiano. He has an inkling, of course, a general path he wants to step onto, but he’s not sure where it’ll take him.

“Sometimes you can’t go into life knowing exactly what you want and how to get it,” Cristiano says, seeming to read Iker’s mind. “Sometimes you just have to live.”

“That sounds...like a pretty great philosophy,” Iker says.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Cristiano says. “I’m trying to live it myself. It’s not easy, but then again, good things hardly are.”

“That’s true,” Iker says, slowly. “Good things hardly are.”

And then he kisses Cristiano. Their tongues slide against each other’s, curious, exploring, languid, and Iker feels like all his senses are filled with Cristiano, how warm he is, practically a second sun against Iker’s skin, against his mouth; how intoxicating he tastes, as if he’s determined to fill up every bit of Iker, every corner and crevice; how he makes sparks dance behind Iker’s closed eyelids, lighting everything up like a flare held to an open flame.

Nothing’s strained or complicated; it’s easy, the glide of their tongues, the press of their lips, the staccato of their heartbeats. It’s easy, but it’s so, so good, and when Cristiano rasps “You think too much” and pulls Iker into another, deeper kiss, Iker lets his thoughts fade away and just loses him in the here and now, in Cristiano.


	4. Never Want to Let You Go (Kaká/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricardo wants to tell him that all he wants right now is for Cristiano to hold him, to pull him into Cristiano’s arms and remind him that there is one place in the world where he’ll always be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the Dortmund 4-1 Madrid game.

Ricardo doesn’t realize that he’s trembling: fine, minute tremors all over his body, until Cristiano knocks his shoulder gently against his.

“You’re shaking,” Cristiano says, his voice quiet, sounding strangely foreign to Ricardo even though he can’t imagine knowing someone the way he knows Cristiano, the way he’s learned to interpret his eyebrow tics and jaw clenches, his quicksilver smiles and liquescent gazes.

“Sorry,” Ricardo says, swallowing.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Cristiano says, with a wry twist of his lips.

“Neither do you.”

Cristiano stares at Ricardo, just looks at him for a long, long moment. His gaze is flat and unwavering, almost unnerving, and although Ricardo has no idea how to read the look in his eyes, he doesn’t break eye contact with Cristiano. He’ll take this brief moment of connection between them, knowing that it’s fleeting, that it’ll be gone as soon as he blinks, and he’ll hold on to it for as long as he can.

“What will an apology do anyway?” Cristiano shrugs. “What will anything do at this point?”

“We can still win,” Ricardo says, but it’s pathetically half-hearted and they both know it.

“Can we?” Cristiano asks yet another rhetorical question, once again with the tone of someone who already has an answer, who perhaps is only speaking to expel some of the bitterness inside him.

Ricardo closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, the words whispering out like a brush of winter wind against his dry lips. It’s the best he can do.

“Neither do I,” Cristiano sighs. It’s not a reassurance, but it’s not an admission of defeat either, and Ricardo knows that it’s the best Cristiano can do as well.

“You’re shaking again,” Cristiano says, gentler this time, and puts his hand on Ricardo’s forearm, carefully, almost warily, like he’s afraid Ricardo will break if he touches him.

Ricardo wants to tell him that all he wants right now is for Cristiano to hold him, to pull him into Cristiano’s arms and remind him that there is one place in the world where he’ll always be safe.

He wants to tell Cristiano how much he loves him, how much he would give for him and how much he wants there to be an “us” between them, to have their names mentioned in tandem, their footsteps close together.

How much he wants Cristiano, period, and how much he hates himself for never having the courage to say it out loud. (Because he’s said it so many times in his dreams, in the way he saves a seat for Cristiano on the bus, the way he always looks for him on the pitch, the way he is the first to greet Cristiano and the last to leave him.)

Ricardo’s said it so many times, in so many other ways, but he’s never _told_ Cristiano verbally, explicitly, not due to any lack of want but due to a deep-seated fear that always ended up controlling him rather than the other way around.

“I guess I am,” Ricardo murmurs, and then, taking a deep breath internally, he reaches for Cristiano’s hand. He doesn’t squeeze or press; he just holds Cristiano’s warm hand in his own and marvels how such a simple action can make him feel so…

Comforted. Content. Complete.

Can make him feel so much, far too much for words, and so he doesn’t even try to think of any more, just lets himself melt into the present and the steady support of Cristiano’s grip.

And then Cristiano squeezes his hand, laces their fingers together so tightly that Ricardo almost feels like his hand is in a tourniquet, but he would not have pulled away for the world.

“Why are you doing this?” Cristiano whispers, something heartrendingly fragile about his voice, like it’s going to shatter any second now. His thumb strokes over Ricardo’s hand, skims over each of his knuckles, feather-light and yet heavy enough to leave their imprint behind forever.

“Because…” Ricardo swallows again, countless responses flying through his mind – _because I love you_ ; _because I need to hold you for a while, and for you to hold me, and I will take this if that’s all I can have;_ _because I’m afraid that if I don’t hold onto you, if I let you go, you’ll never come back to me_ – but he settles for, “Because this is what I want.”

It’s a terrible response, not nearly enough to express what Ricardo wants to say, _needs_ to say, but something softens in Cristiano’s eyes. Ricardo remembers that it works both ways, that he is hardly a stranger to Cristiano, who understands him startlingly, almost frighteningly well too.

“Okay,” Cristiano says quietly, and there are a thousand unsaid words lingering in the space between them, making their home in the tightly interlocked cage of their hands.

“Okay,” Ricardo echoes him, and neither of them says anything more. They just hold onto each other, tightly, securely, an anchor amid the storm, with no intention of letting go anytime soon.


	5. Hold Me Together With Love (Ramos/Casillas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker’s arms come around him, tightly, comfortingly, and hold him together as securely as glue, his murmured words against Sergio’s neck acting like stitches that bind what little of Sergio, what hasn’t broken out of him after that fateful whistle, is left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the game against Dortmund (2-0, 3-4 on aggregate). The pictures speak for themselves. Sese's tears broke what was left of my heart.
> 
>  

Sergio doesn’t realize that he’s crying until he feels moisture slide down his cheeks, landing on his lips, his mouth filled with the saltiness of tears. Did they always taste so bitter? Like guilt and regret made liquid.

Then, just as he thinks that he might fall apart right on the pitch, in front of the fans who have screamed their throats raw to cheer for them, who have pushed aside their disappointment and despair to give it all for their team, _his_ team, not to mention the ecstatic Dortmund players and his equally upset teammates—

Just then, Iker’s arms come around him, tightly, comfortingly, and hold him together as securely as glue, his murmured words against Sergio’s neck acting like stitches that bind what little of Sergio, what hasn’t broken out of him after that fateful whistle, is left.

“Iker,” Sergio chokes out, somehow, and then he can’t speak anymore. He thinks that he might burst out in tears, and he’s past embarrassment, he just doesn’t want to give the fans another incentive to cry themselves. Iker says “shh” gently, like he’s talking to a distraught child.

Sergio thinks that’s more or less what he’s become reduced to: a child who had his dream cruelly taken away, disillusioned and despondent, beyond help.

“Just let it out,” Iker says soothingly. “It’s okay. You can cry. I’m here; I’m here for you.”

It is the fact that Iker tells him he can cry, that he doesn’t tell Sergio to force some composure or save his tears for private, that somehow calms Sergio. He wants to be strong for the fans, for his team. For Iker.

He’s the captain now, and he has to lead by example. Crying won’t do anything now; it won’t turn back time or change the scoreline, and the best and only thing Sergio can do now is to gather up his resolve and spirit and save it for next year.

Next year. It’s the only lifeline he has now, a lifeline that he’s clutched for so long that it’s become thin and threadbare, but he’ll just have to hold on to it with what strength he has left, and he believes that one day, one long-awaited and prayed for day, it will lead him to the destination they’ve been dreaming about for so long:

La Décima.

“I’m so tired,” Sergio finally says, the thickness in his voice not quite dissipated yet, and wipes an arm across his eyes. He’s tired of losing, of becoming so close but always failing halfway, of feeling like he’s let down their fans and the crest he bears so proudly and themselves.

He’s tired, period.

“I know you are,” Iker says, “and it’ll only become more tiring year after year. But that’s the way football is, the way football in Real Madrid is.”

“Yeah,” Sergio says, letting his eyes fall shut, his head dropping against Iker’s shoulder, the only thing keeping him up right now, his most precious lifeline.

“It’s worth it,” Sergio says, half to himself, because it is. He loves Real Madrid so, so much; it’s not just his club, it’s part of his very soul, and if he has to wear himself down to the bone for them every year, he will and he’ll do it happily, because he loves them. “It is.”

“Yes,” Iker agrees, softly, simply, and Sergio almost wants to kiss him, right there in front of the whole world, because he loves Iker so, so much too.

“Iker?”

“Yes, Sergio?” Iker’s eyes are like affection and support made liquid, Sergio thinks, and he can almost drown in them, maybe come out a stronger man.

“Nothing.” What he feels, how much he feels, is beyond words, and he knows that Iker understands.

“Okay,” Iker says, and they fall silent for a while, lose themselves in their grief and pain and hope and love.


	6. The Taste of Tears (Coentrão/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fábio doesn’t make a sound when he cries, just shudders and shakes in Cristiano’s arms, like a fragile leaf trembling on a bare tree of hope, its branches long stripped by the cold gales of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the game against Dortmund (2-0, 3-4 on aggregate).

When the tears start streaking down Fábio’s face, Cristiano feels completely helpless and useless – much like how he had felt when he was on the pitch.

“Fábio...” Cristiano starts, and then swallows, not having the slightest idea what to say. So he does the only thing that comes to mind and pulls Fábio to him, so tightly that when his body starts trembling, he doesn’t know if it’s because Fábio’s shaking or because he has started to as well, overcome by the emotion that he’s tried so hard to control.

Fábio doesn’t make a sound when he cries, just shudders and shakes in Cristiano’s arms, like a fragile leaf trembling on a bare tree of hope, its branches long stripped by the cold gales of reality.

Cristiano opens his mouth to say something again, something consoling, something helpful, but he’s never been good at that. He’s not like Iker or Ricardo, who are the comforters; he’s always been someone who needs comforting.

“S-sorry,” Fábio stammers, his tears having soaked Cristiano’s shirt by this point, a physical proof of their mutual heartbreak. “I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry.”

“Fáb,” Cristiano says gently. “Don’t worry about it. We all cry.”

He is no exception to that. In fact, a year ago, their roles had been reversed and Fábio had been the one holding him after the game against Spain. (He hadn’t cried against Bayern; not because he wasn’t sad enough but because he was _too_ sad, beyond the point of tears. Against Spain though, the pain wasn’t any less, but it was as if a floodgate inside him had broken at last and everything in him, all the futile hope and broken resolve, had poured out in the form of tears.)

“No,” Fábio says, shaking his head. “I mean...I’m _sorry_.”

Cristiano gets it then, gets that Fábio really means “I’m sorry for not being enough” and “I’m sorry for letting you down”. He’s far from a stranger to those emotions.

“Don’t be,” Cristiano tells him, because it’s true and that’s what Fábio needs to hear, and then, “Me too,” because it’s true and that’s what Cristiano needs to say.

Fábio stops crying then, his body straightening as he meets Cristiano’s eyes dead-on. “Don’t be,” he says. “You gave us a chance in the first leg. I just wish we took it.”

Cristiano almost laughs, because they have wasted so many chances this season, broken so many hearts, and if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll just end up crying and his heart will join the ever-growing pile of shattered ones.

“You can cry too, you know,” Fábio says gently, brushing a finger against the corner of Cristiano’s eye. With a start, Cristiano realizes that a droplet of moisture glistens on Fábio’s fingertip: a tear.

“I know,” Cristiano says, but the tear in Fábio’s hand is the only one that he sheds, and after a moment, it dissolves into Fábio’s skin, erased like their Décima dreams. Much like after the game against Bayern, Cristiano is beyond tears.

He almost wishes that he would cry, _could_ cry, because maybe some of his grief and pain, some of his silently screamed _why not? why us? why why_ why? would seep away with his tears, but they don’t come.

“I wish that miracles could happen if you just wanted them badly enough,” Fábio says.

Cristiano thinks of how his father had looked wasting away in a hospital bed, how his mother hadn’t cried but had a look in her eyes that terrified Cristiano to the core, how he had cried like a child in Russia after they told him and Scolari had cried with him, both of them yearning for a father who they would never see again.

He thinks of laughter as bright as the confetti raining down all around them as he held the Liga cup high in the air, thinks of the wonder bursting like fireworks in his chest as the nurse handed him his son, thinks of the picture Fábio made the first time Cristiano took him to bed, all golden skin and tousled hair and dark eyes drunk with dreams.

“Sometimes,” Cristiano says, in a voice more even than he thought himself capable of. “Miracles do happen.”

A faint smile flickers on Fábio’s lips. “Do they?” he asks, like a child seeking reassurance, like a cynical old man losing faith in the world.

Cristiano closes his eyes, and this time he allows himself to hope, to dream, and he sees the Décima draped in white ribbons, feels the glorious weight of it in his arms, hears himself telling Sergio not to drop this one.

“Sometimes,” Cristiano repeats, and he knows it won’t just stay a dream. They _will_ make it happen, and they don’t need a miracle for that, because they’re Real Madrid, and that is reason enough.

Fábio locks gazes with him, the smile having died on his lips but still living, bright and steady, in his eyes. “You’re my miracle,” he says, and kisses Cristiano with the taste of tears lingering on his lips.

Cristiano kisses him back, pouring everything that he has into the kiss, all his anguish and insecurity and his sheer want for his miracle, his Fábio, and they’re both left breathing hard, chests lighter and mouths sweeter.


	7. A Heart Full of Light (Casillas/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Cristiano surprises Iker on his birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Iker's birthday. Title sort of from _A Heart Full of Love_ from _Les Misérables_. I love writing 5 times/things (or 4+1) fics, and Iker/Cris is really growing on me.
> 
> I originally posted this as its own story, but I thought it's short enough that it makes more sense to put it here.

**Five times Cristiano surprises Iker on his birthday**

**i.** Iker has been so busy taking care of an inconsolable Cristiano (somehow enraged and despondent at the same time) for the past two days that he doesn’t even realize it’s his birthday until he sees the cupcake with a single candle on the table when he goes for breakfast.

Accompanying the cupcake (chocolate, his favourite) is a note that says: _Sorry for being such a headache the last couple of days, but now that it’s your birthday, it’s time to relax, old man! ;)_

The winking face is large and overdone and so utterly Cristiano that Iker almost laughs. He goes to the fridge for a cup of milk, wanting to devour the cupcake and yet save it at the same time, keep it somewhere safe and secure, this small but precious memento of Cristiano’s love.

Taped to the milk carton is another note that says _You didn’t think a cupcake was all, did you? There are more surprises to come ;) ;) ;)_

Iker thinks that Cristiano is much too in love with winking faces. And hair gel. And hideous belts.

And maybe (he hopes) Iker.

 

 **ii.** Iker has one hand on his keys, the other reaching for his car door, when he sees the note stuck to the windshield. He wonders if this is going to turn into some kind of scavenger hunt or something, and instead of feeling irritated or impatient as he might have several months ago, now he merely feels...curious. Anticipatory. Almost excited.

He doesn’t feel thirty-two or anything close to it; he feels closer to twelve, actually, a child who wanted to cup the world in his hands and who believed that any door could be broken down if you worked and believed hard enough.

And although the world’s proven to him that no, life doesn’t work that way, _Real Madrid_ doesn’t work that way, Iker has not completely lost hope.

Perhaps it should be strange that three pieces of paper and a chocolate cupcake were what rekindled that flame of youthful conviction in his chest, but then again, this was Cristiano’s doing and Iker’s never questioned the extents of Cristiano’s remarkable capabilities.

 

 **iii.** Training is a quiet affair, still rife with weary resignation and bitter disappointment (not just from the Copa final, but from the failure of a season in general, from the final reminder of how far they’ve fallen: from champions soaring in the sky, untouchable, unbreakable, to half-broken men further discovering how cold and hard the ground is), nothing close to the usual bright, playful days in Valdebebas.

Iker’s teammates do make an effort to smile at him, however, giving him pats on the back and squeezes on the shoulder, murmurs of “Happy Birthday” that are filled with genuine warmth and affection. It’s not a trophy, but Iker finds it pretty nice. He’s not Iker Casillas, undisputed starter and constant presence between the posts, anymore, but he’s still Iker Casillas, dependable captain and white-to-the-core Madridista.

It’s not a starting position, or a captain’s armband, but it’s something.

And then, when Cristiano and Sergio walk out, carrying a white cake that has a dollop of icing missing from the corner together (Iker notices the smudge on the corner of Sergio’s mouth and has to hold back his smile)...

It’s not a promise that everything will be better, but it’s beautiful, it’s radiant, lit up by all the candles and the quiet beauty of Cristiano’s smile.

It’s Iker’s, and so is this club, this team, (this amazing man with his over-gelled hair and under-appreciated heart), and he’ll hold onto it with all the force in his healed hands.

 

 **iv.** “Did you like it?” Cristiano asks Iker after dinner, finishing up his last (and first, since Cristiano is not particularly fond of sweets and is extremely fixated with taking care of his body) slice of cake.

“I loved it,” Iker tells him honestly, patting his stomach, which doesn’t feel very flat. Cristiano had surprised him once more with a home-cooked dinner, including many of Iker’s favourites (“What do you think I spend all that time on the phone with your mom for?” “I don’t know, getting embarrassing childhood stories of me?” “...Okay, that too.”) and Iker’s so stuffed he doesn’t know if he can get up.

“The cake too?” Cristiano smiles. “You shouldn’t eat so much, old man. You know, your metabolism decreases with age.”

“Are you ever going to stop calling me old?” Iker grumbles, although he’s not actually bothered by it. When Cristiano calls him old, he always does it lightly, teasingly, with a lopsided smile and sparkling eyes, and his boyish expression is so endearing that it makes Iker feel younger just looking at him.

“Nope,” Cristiano says cheerfully. “You’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Or I can shut your mouth,” Iker says, his eyes flickering to said (utterly sinful) mouth, and Cristiano swallows.

“You just said you were too full to move,” Cristiano says, a challenge blooming in his smile.

Iker stands up and pushes Cristiano right against the table, feeling like he can’t wait until the bedroom. (And anyway, he likes kissing Cristiano when he’s pressed against something, surprisingly pliant and yielding underneath Iker’s lips and fingers.)

“I’ll make an exception for you,” Iker murmurs against Cristiano’s mouth, and swallows whatever smart retort that Cristiano is no doubt about to say.

He makes a lot of exceptions for Cristiano: stubborn, cynical, caring, _beautiful_ Cristiano, and he should probably mind that more than he does, but Cristiano is special and everything Iker has, rules and limits and restraints, all seem to fall away when it comes to him.

 

 **v.** They’re getting ready for bed, Iker slipping on his pyjamas, Cristiano still in the bathroom brushing his teeth (or rearranging his various cosmetic products again, Iker doesn’t even know), when Iker sees the two slips of paper hanging out the back pockets of Cristiano’s jeans, which are carelessly tossed over a chair.

Not wanting something to happen to the papers, whatever they are, Iker takes them out of Cristiano’s pants, smoothing his hand over them. That’s when he notices what they are: two plane tickets to Madeira, scheduled for late June.

He freezes up, eyes widening and mind flying over the possible meanings of these tickets, and he doesn’t even register the sound of the bedroom door opening and closing again until he hears Cristiano’s voice right in front of him.

“Oh. I guess you found the tickets.”

Iker looks up. Cristiano’s hair is slightly damp and he’s dressed in an old t-shirt faded to the point of being almost white and a pair of loose Nike sweatpants. Still, he somehow looks like he could have just stepped out from a modelling shoot. Sometimes Iker’s chest seizes up just looking at Cristiano, because he’s so, so beautiful, not just because of his face and body, but because of _him_ , some interior, unnameable quality that makes him appear lit up from the inside.

And Iker thinks that he’s so lucky to be able to see this light from so close up, to be able to make Cristiano glow brighter with a word or touch.

“So...what do you think?” Cristiano looks at Iker expectantly, but also almost self-consciously, biting his lip and glancing through his lashes, and.

How could Iker say no to that face? How could he not want to go with Cristiano to his home, the sun-drenched island that produced the man Iker loves?

“I think you shouldn’t have stuck them in the back pocket of your jeans,” Iker says mildly, smiling to soften the remark.

Cristiano looks decidedly sheepish now. “I didn’t have anywhere to put them!” he says. “I wanted to surprise you with them tonight. A birthday present, you know? And I couldn’t find a fancy box that would fit plane tickets.”

“It’s okay,” Iker laughs. “I love them, fancy box or not.”

“Yeah?” Cristiano grins. “So that’s a yes, then?” His eyes are shining with barely repressed hope, and he’s let go of his bottom lip, but it’s red and glistening from being bitten, and Iker wants to leave the mark of his own teeth behind on it. Wants to leave his mark on Cristiano, to claim him and show the world that he’s taken. That he’s Iker’s.

“Yes,” Iker says, and pulls Cristiano into a kiss. “Yes, it’s a yes. I want to - to go back to Portugal with you. To see where you grew up.”

_To go home with you. To spend the summer with you and your family. To see what you’re like when it’s just you and the people you love, without the matches and the media and the pressure-responsibilities-expectations._

“Good,” Cristiano says, voice filled with happiness, and it somehow makes that small word sound enormous, full of meaning and significance. He kisses Iker again, the plane tickets pressed between their bodies, promises of sunshine and laughter and a corner of the world just for the two of them.

Cristiano’s smile is boyish and bright and completely brilliant, making Iker feel like he’s staring right into the sun. “You up for swimming in the ocean, old man?”

“I’m up for anything you have in store,” Iker says coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“Even a full afternoon of tanning?”

“Don’t push me,” Iker says, and when Cristiano laughs, he presses their lips together, tasting sunshine and laughter and the start of a new world in the infinitesimal space between their lips and hearts.


	8. A Better World (Kaká/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricardo and Cristiano after the Inter game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was originally supposed to be a Cris/Ricky/bb Morata fic, but somehow I just couldn't get Álvarito in there and I ended up with just CrisKa, and. What can I say, I like just CrisKa.

“Great job today,” Cristiano says to Ricardo, who looks up from tidying up his bag and smiles.

“Thank you. You too.”

Cristiano takes a careful look around to check that the locker room is empty and they’re alone, before he wraps his arms around Ricardo from behind and drops his head onto Ricardo’s shoulder.

“Geez, you’re always so polite,” Cristiano says. “You make me feel like a loud-mouthed brat.”

“You _are_ a loud-mouthed brat,” Ricardo says, but he smiles as he says it, his eyes full of warmth, and it’s nothing close to an insult.

Cristiano huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nice to know what you really think of me. And after I stayed behind for hours just to get some alone time with you too.”

Ricardo makes a point out of looking at his watch, but then he just shakes his head and succumbs to his smile, which is pretty much an automatic reaction around Cristiano.

“Álvarito did a good job too,” Cristiano remarks, and he would’ve sounded casual to almost anyone else. Not Ricardo though. He knows Cristiano too well for that, and when it comes to Cristiano, Ricardo has never been anyone else.

“Yes, he did,” Ricardo agrees. “I don’t know why the club’s so keen to buy a high-profile striker when we have Álvaro.”

“You just said it yourself,” Cristiano points out. “Real Madrid is all about high-profile players. Guess Álvaro doesn’t suit the bill.”

“It’s not like you to sound so bitter,” Ricardo says gently.

“What can I say? I’m a bitter man.” Cristiano sounds flippant, but there’s a serious note buried somewhere in his tone. It’s not easy to detect, but then again, Ricardo’s had years of practice. “Ricky, you’re too nice. Why do you let them treat you like that?”

Ricardo is quiet for a long moment. “Is this why you brought up Álvaro?”

“No.” Cristiano meets his gaze evenly. “I wanted to talk about him, but. What can I say? For me, everything always comes back to you. I can’t not think about you.”

Ricardo smiles again, but this one is very different from the ones before. It’s small, and it only touches the corners of his mouth, but it’s not because of amusement, or even a burst of affection, it’s because Cristiano just said exactly how Ricardo feels about him.

Cristiano grins, and tilts his head, his nose drawing a line along Ricardo’s neck, his mouth finding Ricardo’s ear. “Do you think I’m still a loud-mouthed brat?”

Ricardo shivers at the sensation of Cristiano’s breath fanning over his ear, the warm timber of Cristiano’s voice washing over him. “You have a sweet mouth too,” he says, and he can almost taste Cristiano’s smile before their mouths meet, and then half a heartbeat later, sweetness sweeps over him in every sense of the word and he lets it sweep him away into a better world.


	9. You're My #1 (Casillas/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker is moping, and Cris is...Cris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the Madrid-Bétis game, where Iker was left on the bench. Look at his poor sad face.

Iker wouldn’t say that he’s moping, exactly. He’s just caught in his thoughts, which aren’t exactly cheerful. Okay, so it’s just the first game of the season, he tells himself, just the first game of the season, it’s not like you’re going to be on the bench forever. But.

It’s only the first game of the season, and he’s already on the bench. He’s not an arrogant or egocentric person, but he’s the captain, he’s played for Madrid since he was nine, and he just wanted to start off the season truly with his team instead of being a spectator, a bystander, again.

Okay fine, he’s moping.

“You should pick up your pace, old man,” a teasing, ever so familiar voice says. “Or do you want the janitor to lock you in for the night?”

Iker just grunts. Cristiano, though, doesn’t give up so easily, and Iker feels a pair of warm arms wrap around him from behind. The hug only lasts for a few seconds, but it eases the sick feeling in his stomach, like he ate something that doesn’t agree with him.

“Hey,” Cristiano says softly. “It’s only the first game of the season.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“You’re still our number one, you know?” Cristiano smiles. Iker can’t see it, since his back is to Cristiano, but he can feel it, and his own mouth starts to tug up in response.

“Am I your number one too?” Iker teases, turns around so that they’re face to face. Cristiano looks surprisingly tired, sweat still visible on his forehead, and Iker feels a stab of guilt as he realizes that Cristiano hadn’t bothered with his post-game routine because of him.

“Sorry, that spot is reserved for my son,” Cristiano says, with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Well,” Iker replies, after a moment’s pause. “I guess in this case, second place isn’t so bad.”

Cristiano laughs, and then he kisses Iker, who winds his fingers into Cristiano’s hair and loses himself in Cristiano’s mouth.


	10. Know That We're Still a Tight Fit (Silva/Villa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva rubs a hand blearily over his face, yawning. It takes him a few seconds to place the noise that woke him up as his ringtone, and he answers his phone with clumsy fingers, still half-asleep.

Silva rubs a hand blearily over his face, yawning. It takes him a few seconds to place the noise that woke him up as his ringtone, and he answers his phone with clumsy fingers, still half-asleep.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Sorry, did I wake you?”

It’s Villa. “Sort of, yeah. It’s okay. Did you...want something?”

“What, I can’t call just because I wanted to say hi?” Villa sounds defensive, which is not like him, and yet it is, because he’s always so reluctant to say what he actually feels.

It used to be infuriating for Silva, and then it became irritating, and now it’s just...Villa.

“Okay,” Silva replies evenly. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How’s Madrid?”

“It’s...alright,” Villa says. “It’s not Barcelona, obviously. But. It actually reminds me more of Valencia.”

Silva smiles. “And...is that a good thing?”

“I liked Valencia,” Villa just says, and Silva’s smile widens.

“So.” Silva hesitates. “Are you happy?”

“I don’t know,” Villa says after a pause. “I’m not _un_ happy.”

Silva hesitates, bites his lip. There are so many things he could say here (“I want you to be happy,” “Do you wish you stayed in Barcelona?”, “That’s how I felt when I went to City too”), but none of them feel right and so he just swallows those unsaid words.

“I have next Thursday off,” he says intead. “Knowing you, you’ve probably demolished all the dust bunnies in your house already.” He leaves the sentence hanging open.

Villa laughs, quietly. “Never underestimate the might of dust bunnies. I could still use some help unpacking a few things though.”

“Is two okay?”

“Three would be better.”

“Okay,” Silva agrees, and it’s as easy as that.

He worried excessively at the beginning, and he still worries now, that the vast distance between Manchester and Barcelona (and now, Madrid) would tear them apart, that the years and new environment would change them until they didn’t know each other the same way anymore, but.

When Villa says something offhand and blithe, Silva can still grasp the meaning underneath; when Silva smiles over the phone, he has a feeling that Villa can still see it. Yes, they see each other far too little now, and yes, they’ve changed, but more importantly, they still fit.

“Silva? Did you fall asleep on me?”

“Sorry, I just—got lost in thought,” Silva says sheepishly. “You know me.”

“Yeah,” Villa says, soft. “I do.”

Silva swears under his breath when he sees the clock. “I’m late. I have an appointment with the physio.”

“Oh. You should go, then.”

“I’ll call you later,” Silva promises. “See you Thursday.”

“Okay.” Villa is back to his succinct replies.

“And. David...” Silva hesitates. This is not something they say to each other often, especially on Villa’s side, and even rarer on the phone, but somehow Silva feels like he should say it, feels like he needs to say it. “I, I—”

“I know,” Villa cuts him off. “It’s okay, I know.”

And Silva knows that he really does.


	11. The Weight of a Goodbye (Kaká/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory goodbye fic. Oh my OTP...

Ricardo is cleaning out his locker, hand lingering on a picture of him and Cristiano, faces split with bright smiles, the Liga trophy gleaming in their tight grasps, when he hears soft footsteps from behind him.

“So…Milan, huh?”

His fingers loosen on the picture for a second, and then they tighten until the paper crumbles at the edges. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then finds himself at an utter loss for words, despite the fact that this is Cristiano and there’s never been a lack of things to say between them, only a lack of need to say them.

Cristiano seems to feel the same way, because he wraps his arms around Ricardo and puts his head on his shoulder, releasing a quiet sigh that seems to hold so much, although for once Ricardo can’t read it, can’t read him.

“I’m happy for you,” Cristiano says, quiet but sincere. “I know this is what you want. What you’ve wanted for so long.”

Ricardo just nods, feeling like a lump’s been lodged in his throat, a lump made of words: _I want to play in the World Cup, I want to start, I want to be loved. I want to be appreciated, to be wanted._

_I want all that, but I want you just as much. But I can’t have it both ways. Life is cruel like that, in how it makes you choose when there isn’t a choice._

“Cristiano,” Ricardo starts, putting his hand over Cristiano’s, fingers tightening, wanting to hold onto something more than what he can physically grasp. “I-I’m sorry.”

Cristiano shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Are you mad at me?” Ricardo asks, his voice small. He turns around, still keeping his firm grip on Cristiano’s hand, so they can face each other. Cristiano looks younger than he usually does, although his eyes look ancient: eyes that have seen far more than their fair share of pain and loss.

“I—” Cristiano opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Yeah, I am,” he admits.

“Oh.” Ricardo looks down. “I don’t blame you.”

“I’m not really mad at _you_. I’m mad that this is how it has to be. I’m mad that we can’t be together and both get what we want.”

“I want you,” Ricardo says, and he means it as much as anyone can mean anything.

“I know.” Cristiano’s eyes soften, but they’re still sad, sad in a soft, dark way that makes Ricardo ache. “I want you too, but like I told you, I want you to be happy. And if this is the only way…”

“I wish it wasn’t.”

“Too bad life doesn’t give a damn about our wishes.” Cristiano reaches into Ricardo’s locker, brushes his thumb against the AC Milan pin that Ricardo has never taken off, not for four years. “They love you in Milan. They’ve never forgotten you. In a way, you’re going home, aren’t you?”

“This is home,” Ricardo says honestly, “but, yes, Milan holds a special place in my heart. It always will.”

Cristiano stares right at him. “And me?”

As an answer, he takes Cristiano’s hand and puts it on his chest, directly above his heart. “You will always have my heart,” he says sincerely, and Cristiano’s smile is crumpled at the corners like the photo of them, but it lights up Ricardo’s world all the same.

“Ricky,” Cristiano whispers, and he folds against Ricardo’s form, more of a collapse than a hug. He feels like all sharp edges – the bump of his chin and the jut of his shoulder blades – instead of the mixed geometry of hard planes and yielding curves of his body that Ricardo’s long memorized. “Ricardo.”

Cristiano murmurs his name like a litany, curled around him like he never wants to let go, and Ricardo feels like he would be content to stay like this for the rest of the day, for the rest of the year. Like even the undying faith of the Rossoneri and the grandeur of the San Siro can’t hold a candle to this, to the feeling of Cristiano’s hair brushing against his cheek, the softness of his breath stirring the miniscule space between them.

However, time is unyielding, and the more you want it to drag on, the more it speeds by. It waits for no one, and it has no sympathy for love.

When they part, slowly and reluctantly, Ricardo feels like something has changed about the air. It has become heavier, more pressing, and he finds it hard to drag into his lungs. It’s like even the world around them carries the weight of a goodbye.

“Promise me one thing,” Cristiano says, and Ricardo nods immediately, even though he knows promises are dangerous and hard to keep. “Promise me that we’ll see each other at the World Cup.”

Ricardo blinks at him, eyes widening slightly, before he nods somberly. “I promise,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Cristiano smiles, faintly. “Do you think…things are going to be okay?”

There is so much that he can mean by _things_ , but Ricardo takes it as two: football and them. About football, he can’t know, he can’t guarantee anything, but about them…

“I know we’re going to be okay,” Ricardo says, quietly but firmly, and this time Cristiano’s smile is wider. This time, Ricardo joins him, the weight of a goodbye palpable but not crushing.

After all, love weighs so much more.


	12. The Story of Us (Casillas/Villa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This thing between them had started when Iker was in Madrid and David was in Valencia. David was young and sharp around the edges, and Iker hadn’t been much older but he had felt it, somehow.

This thing between them had started when Iker was in Madrid and David was in Valencia. David was young and sharp around the edges, and Iker hadn’t been much older but he had felt it, somehow. Perhaps it was the weight from Madrid that had been there for almost as long as he remembers, a weight that he bore (and continues to bear) proudly but one that wasn’t easy to shoulder (and still isn’t).

David helps. David, with his intense eyes that are more deep than dark, with his sharp, biting remarks that can somehow convey an incredible tenderness. David, who Iker loves.

Their story is not exactly breathtaking, or spectacular, or the stuff movies are made of.

It’s...comfortable, which is really the most Iker can ask for. David hogs the blankets, and Iker always keeps one nearby so he won’t freeze during the night. Iker has to hold onto something (or someone) when he sleeps, and David bought him a body pillow that he put a DAVID VILLA 7 jersey on because he apparently only likes to have a blanket wrapped around him rather than another person. David’s a pretty good cook, but he hates grocery shopping, which is where Iker comes in (and leaves after he helps put the things in the fridge, because they both know he can probably burn water.)

All in all, they fit well, which is something that hasn’t changed from Valencia to Barcelona to Madrid.

This David is older, and worn down softer around the edges, but his glares have only sharpened over the years.

 

“So, how’s Madrid?”

David shrugs. “It’s alright. Not as great as you made it out to be, but then again, you’re totally in love with this place.”

“It’s my home,” Iker says. “Always been. Always will.”

“Really?” David looks at him intently. “You’re not going anywhere?”

“Where would I go?”

David shrugs again. “You could go anywhere. You’re Iker Casillas. Any club would love to have you.”

“Well, I only love one club.” It’s not that simple to Iker, and he knows David is perfectly aware of that, but at the same time, it is that simple, because it’s Madrid, and that’s reason enough.

“I know you want to play.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

David’s brows draw together. “I’m not a one-club man like you. I loved Valencia, but I left. I loved Barcelona, but I left. But I just—I want you to play too. I want you to do well.”

Iker’s eyes soften. “I am well,” he tells David. “A couple games on the bench won’t kill me.”

David raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Iker’s mouth curves up, and he gives a chuckle that's half a sigh. “You know, you’re the only person who’s talked to me about this so...bluntly. Even Xavi beat around the bushes a bit.”

“You know me, I hate cutting corners.” David smiles, a small one but it reaches his eyes, and Iker smiles back, because he does know that, and he likes it, even though that precise trait has made him grit his teeth quite a number of times.

“I don’t want to leave Madrid,” Iker says. “Even if they don’t want me, I still want them.”

“They want you,” David says. “You know they do.”

“Yeah,” Iker says, quietly. The thought is what keeps him going, that despite how he’s not starting, he’s still ever-present in their hearts and thoughts. That they still love him, because their love means so, so much to him. “I know.”

He throws David a lopsided smile. “What about you? Do you want me?”

David snorts, and he shoves Iker’s shoulder. “What are you, fishing for compliments? I’ve given you enough already.”

“What can I say?” It’s Iker’s turn to shrug. “I’m greedy.”

David smiles, and he leans in to kiss Iker, his mouth tasting spicy and sweet, like fruit and spices. “I know. Look how you get all over me in bed like an insomniac octopus.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting all over you,” Iker says, his eyes gleaming, and he swallows David’s half-snort, half-laugh with his next kiss.

 

This thing between them is still going on, with Iker in Madrid and David in Madrid as well, although it’s not the same Madrid, and they’re not the same people as when they started.

And. It’s okay. David tastes like cinnamon and mint toothpaste, and he kisses like there are secrets written on his lips that only Iker can decipher, and he buys a Tassimo for them because Iker can’t be trusted around a regular coffee maker.

Their love isn’t theatre material; it’s slice-of-life. It’s trading kisses in the morning while David makes omelettes and Iker pours them juice; it’s bantering in the locker room while their teammates look on knowingly with smirks; it’s sleeping with limbs twined together to accommodate their respective needs.

It’s a give and take game. It’s not easy, but Iker thinks it’s worth it. It isn’t the kind of relationship he used to dream of; he wouldn’t say that it’s better, per se, but it’s more.

It’s comfortable. It’s them. It’s love.

And Iker’s happy, exactly where he is.


	13. A World with No Air (Ronaldo/Casillas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano rakes a hand through his hair, staring out vacantly into empty space - except it doesn't feel very empty at all. The air itself feels like it's mocking him, as it doesn't stir when he breathes deeply in, or when he exhales so hard his chest feels like it caves in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I wrote this on LJ yesterday, but I totally forgot to post it here. We all know what game this is about.

Cristiano rakes a hand through his hair, staring out vacantly into empty space - except it doesn't feel very empty at all. The air itself feels like it's mocking him, as it doesn't stir when he breathes deeply in, or when he exhales so hard his chest feels like it caves in. He can't seem to do much besides sit there and breathe. Even that already feels like it takes too much effort.

Some of his teammates try to talk to him, and it's not that he means to ignore them, but their soft, sympathetic words seem to float around in his head, blurry and indistinguishable from the blank buzzing already there, and when he snaps out of whatever it is that he's lost in and looks up, they're already gone.

His closer friends, who understand him better, don't say anything at all. Fábio puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Cristiano feels that, feels the simple contact touch him in a way his other teammates' words couldn't. Marcelo tosses Cristiano a water bottle, and then just sits there beside him for a while, quiet and serious for once, and Cristiano appreciates all the words in his silence. Pepe puts an arm around Cristiano, who tenses at first but lets himself loosen, fall lax and breathes onto Pepe's shoulder, the air he expels full of apologies and questions and other senseless, heavy things that press down too painfully on his lungs for him to keep them to himself.

Kaká sends him a text with a simple _i'm not here right now, but i'm here for you_ , and Cristiano stares at the words for a long time, his grip on his phone white-knuckled and tense, and he doesn't realize he's squeezing so hard that he's close to breaking his phone (that would be fitting, considering all the other things that are breaking and broken around him, inside him) until Sergio gently pries it from his fingers.

"Hey."

Cristiano clears his throat. "Hey."

It's the first thing he said since the (blind as a bat) referee blew the whistle, which wasn't that long ago, but somehow his voice feels hoarse from disuse, and the _hey_ sounds strange to his own ears, like he's hearing someone else's voice coming from his own throat.

"Six points, huh?" Sergio says, with a brutal sort of honesty that Cristiano appreciates, even though those two words make him feel sick to his stomach.

"Might as well just kiss the league goodbye."

"We might have to kiss the other trophies goodbye too if we're going to keep playing like this."

Cristiano doesn't say anything. Sergio knows he agrees, knows how unsatisfied he is with their performance. Some things don't need to be said to be heard.

"I miss Mesut," Sergio says suddenly, and it's unexpected enough for Cristiano's head to snap up and for him to stare at Sergio with slightly widened eyes. "Well, don't you?"

"Yes. God, yes." Cristiano misses Mesut's pinpoint passes, his through balls and his crosses and his fumbling Spanish and his quiet smiles and the team that they used to be, with Mesut and Pipita and a sense of focus and intensity that has mysteriously disappeared. He wishes he knows where it's gone, and how to get it back. "We're going in the wrong direction, aren't we?"

"What's the right direction, even?" Sergio muses.

 _Away from this_ , Cristiano thinks. _Away from us_. From what we've become.

He looks aimlessly around the locker room, and he sees Morata and Jesé talking in the corner, their heads bent close together (at least he was able to do something, help Jesé for a goal, although it came too little, too late); Sami sitting hunched over, his fingers flying over his phone (texting Mesut?); Luka talking to Gareth, whose face is pale and pinched (Cristiano feels bad for him; his first Clásico wasn't the best of games either, and he knows how high the expectations and stakes are for Gareth - he's been there and done that).

A sudden question strikes Cristiano, and he can't believe how long it's taken him to ask this, so absorbed in how he feels when everyone else is going through the same thing.

(He knows he's selfish; people don't need to tell him that. He's selfish and egotistical and overly demanding, and people - his mom, Kaká, _Iker_ \- have told him that he's not those things, he just cares a lot and expects a lot, and maybe it's not fair for him to expect as much from everyone else as he does from himself, but it's not something _bad_.

He knows differently. He's selfish, that's all, and he wants everything, even though he doesn't even deserve everything that he already has.)

"Where's Iker?"

"In the showers. I think he's trying to drown himself in there."

Cristiano pushes himself off from the bench, his legs aching in a strange, heavy way. "I should go talk to him."

"While he's naked?"

Cristiano shrugs. "It's not anything I haven't seen before."

He's seen Iker naked plenty of times, not just naked as in without clothes, but bare and exposed and vulnerable. They've both seen each other with all their masks and defences stripped away, when they're just Cristiano and Iker, and not CR7 and San Iker, and--

Cristiano feels like the world's greatest jackass for not thinking about Iker until now, but he finds himself wanting, needing, to talk to Iker right now, to hold him and be held by him, and getting wet isn't going to stop him.

"I'll talk to you later," he says to Sergio, almost tripping over his slippers as he heads to the showers.

"Have fun with Iker!"

Sergio is grinning from ear to ear when Cristiano looks back at him, and it's the first smile he's seen in--well, too long.

"I was going to thank you, but...shut up."

Cristiano knocks his shoulder against Sergio's, his mouth pulling up almost of its own volition. Sergio laughs.

"You're welcome, man. It's nice to see you smile again. Now go and make Iker smile. Nobody can do that the way you can."

Cristiano doesn't need to be asked to make Iker smile. He wouldn't say that it's hard, per se, but it still makes him feel a warm, fierce sense of accomplishment and pride when he makes Iker really smile, lines crinkling around his eyes and bracketing his mouth. It's not an expression that Cristiano could ever forget.

He knows Iker won't be able to smile like that tonight, probably not even for the rest of the week, but Cristiano will do his best to bring that smile back to his face.

"Hey," Cristiano says softly, just as Iker comes out of the shower, looking paler than ever, almost as white as the towel wrapped around his hips. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Iker falters. "To do what?"

Cristiano closes the distance between them in a few strides, and puts his arms around Iker, not caring how his clothes are getting wet.

"I'm sorry I'm selfish," he breathes into Iker's hair, "and I was just sitting there sulking by myself, and I didn't come to you."

"Cris..." Iker's voice is soft.

"Come over tonight?" Cristiano asks hopefully. "I don't want to be alone."

Iker doesn't reply right away, and Cristiano's heart starts to sink, but then Iker gives a tired but genuine-looking smile and says, "You won't be."

It's not _that_ smile, but Cristiano doesn't think it'll take too long for him to see it again. He breathes, and the air feels lighter, clearer in his lungs, diffused with the crisp, familiar scent of Iker's aftershave, and he thinks that things may be far from okay right now, but they will be.


	14. I See You (Ronaldo/Messi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” Leo says unexpectedly.
> 
> “About what? It’s not like you were the one who said those things.” Cristiano runs his hand over his face, suddenly tired for a very different reason than being woken up in the middle of the night. “Just forget it, Leo. People will say what they want to say. It’s always been this way, and it’ll always be this way, so there’s no point getting worked up over it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this two days ago, while steaming over Blatter, and it was supposed to be cracky, but it started off kinda serious, and then pretty cracky, with some cheesy mixed in between.
> 
> Now I feel like incorporating Cris' commander salute in there - NEVER STOP BEING YOU CRIS, YOU AMAZING PERSON YOU.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://leonaldoobsession.lofter.com/post/1cb433c3_264fb0d).

Cristiano is woken from a very nice dream of – actually, he doesn’t remember, something with mangos and kites? – whatever he was dreaming about by the rude ringing of his phone. He makes a groaning sound that probably sounds like a dying elephant and wonders if his phone would recover from being thrown across the room, but then he blearily makes out the caller ID and answers with another dying elephant groan.

“My God, why are you calling me at fuck o’clock?”

Leo falters. “I—sorry?”

“I need my beauty sleep, you know.” Cristiano rubs blearily at his eyes. “This had better be important. What, did you have a wet dream about me and couldn’t get back to sleep?”

Most people would probably flounder for a reply to that, but Leo just says, “You wish,” and Cristiano grins.

“Maybe I do,” he says suggestively.

“Cris,” Leo sighs. “We are not having phone sex at – to quote you – fuck o’clock.”

“I could call you back later.”

“Cris.” But Cristiano can hear half a laugh in Leo’s voice. “I called you for something serious.”

Cristiano groans. He’s so not up for serious at fuck o’clock. Phone sex he could totally go for, but actual talking…

“If this is about the match, I already told you that I won’t go after Mascherano and paint WANKER on his car, so I really don’t see—”

“It’s not about that,” Leo cuts him off. “It’s about Blatter. What he said.”

“Oh.” Cristiano is silent for a while. It’s not like he’s thought about what Blatter said nonstop or anything, but with the huge media storm about it and Zidane actually approaching him to tell him that the club would contact FIFA about it, it’s been hard not to think about it. “Leo, I’m really not up for this right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo says unexpectedly.

“About what? It’s not like you were the one who said those things.” Cristiano runs his hand over his face, suddenly tired for a very different reason than being woken up in the middle of the night. “Just forget it, Leo. People will say what they want to say. It’s always been this way, and it’ll always be this way, so there’s no point getting worked up over it.”

“But they’re _wrong_ ,” Leo says, with a ferocity that most people wouldn’t think him capable of. “They’re wrong, and you can’t let them get away with something like that.”

“What am I supposed to do? Sue him?”

“I know a good lawyer,” Leo offers, and Cristiano laughs, only half bitter.

“He wasn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Cristiano remarks offhandedly. “I mean, you _are_ a ‘good boy’, and I wouldn’t mind taking you home.”

“Cris,” Leo sighs again, half-fond, half-exasperated, and then his voice abruptly hardens. “You’re doing it again.”

Cristiano plays dumb. “Doing what?”

“You’re making this a laughing matter so you can pretend you don’t care, when I know you do.”

It figures that there’s no point acting in front of Leo, who knows him all too well and won’t hesitate to call him out on it.

“What does it matter if I care?” Cristiano asks quietly. “If I care, if I get angry, it won’t do me any good. That’s exactly what people want: to get a rise out of me. They can push me all they want, but I’m not going to fall down.”

“I know that,” Leo says. “I really admire you for that.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad for me, you know,” Cristiano says, matter-of-fact. “People may have an exaggerated image of me, but it didn’t come out of nowhere. I’m not exactly the most humble person in the world.”

“Neither am I,” Leo says, and then, “I don’t feel bad for you. I feel bad for _them_ , because they only see what they want to see in you, and they don’t even see you. And you, you—”

“Leo,” Cristiano says softly, and he suddenly wishes so badly that Leo’s here with him, that the distance between Madrid and Barcelona doesn’t feel as vast as it does, almost unbridgeable sometimes. But right now, with Leo calling him in the middle of the night to tell him these things, they don’t feel very far at all. “You see me. My friends and family see me. The people who matter do. And—it’s okay.”

“I hate it when people talk about us like they know us,” Leo says. “They don’t know us at all. They don’t know who we really are, and they’re so eager to label us.”

“Are you tired of being called a humble little angel?” Cristiano teases.

“You and I both know I’m anything but angelic,” Leo replies, and really, just words shouldn’t be able to send a flash of heat through Cristiano like that, but when it comes to Leo, there are few just’s.

“I have to say though,” Cristiano drawls, “I like how everyone thinks you’re so sweet and then you turn into this total wildcat when you’re with me.”

Leo coughs. “You’re the one who likes to leave hickeys like tattoos,” he grumbles. “I got ribbed about the last one by my teammates for two weeks.”

Cristiano grins. He likes the idea of people seeing his marks on Leo, especially that insufferable Neymar who tags after Leo like a lost puppy. Leo is his, and people should back off.

“Did they like my artwork?”

“I wouldn’t call that artwork.”

“I’ll try harder next time,” Cristiano promises.

Leo sighs. “I liked your Twitter message though,” he says. “It was…smart of you.”

“What can I say, I’m a genius.”

“Sure. Right.”

But Cristiano can hear the smile in Leo’s voice, can almost see it even though they’re just talking over the phone. Things are like that between them, and it’s not something they’ve ever talked about, but they both know it perfectly well.

“Some of the points Blatter made were pretty good,” Cristiano says thoughtfully. “Because you know, it wouldn’t hurt you to spend a little more at the hairdresser. Seriously, did you check out the one I recommended last time? Because your hair could use some work.”

“You—” Leo makes a series of spluttering sounds. “There is nothing wrong with my hair.”

Cristiano sighs. “Leo, do you not own a mirror? Or a comb?”

“You threw away my comb last time you came over because you said it ‘causes too much frizz and dangerously increases the chance of split ends’.”

“Well, yeah. That thing was practically a criminal. Did you get it from the dollar store or something?”

Leo is silent for a long moment. “Would you happy if I just let you be my personal hairstylist?” he finally asks.

“Hell, no,” Cristiano snorts. “I don’t want to deal with that mop.”

He can totally picture Leo fuming at the other end of the phone, and really, this is too much fun.

“You’re awfully energetic for someone complaining about how late it is,” Leo says.

“Is it late? I feel like the day’s just begun.”

“Cristiano.”

Leo says his name like a sigh and a laugh and a touch at the same time. It’s kind of amazing how many things he can put into just Cristiano’s name, and how many things he can make Cristiano feel just by hearing it.

“Yes, Lionel?”

“It’s getting rather late,” Leo says, “or early, I guess. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Cristiano says, although he doesn’t want Leo to hang up; he wants to keep talking to him, and count the smiles that he can see but not look at, and maybe if he closes his eyes he can pretend Leo’s right there with him.

“We’ll see each other soon.”

Leo says it the way he always does, a promise, not the casual, thoughtless way other people say it. They say it because that’s just what people say, or because they feel like they should; Leo says it because he means it.

Cristiano loves that about him.

“Okay,” Cristiano says again, and “really, go get a better comb”, and “I see you too, Leo. I see you.”

“Cris,” Leo says softly, and Cristiano can tell he’s smiling. “Stay away from my combs from now on.”

They don’t say goodbye, because they’re not really parting, just waiting for soon to come.


	15. 3 times Fernando tells David he's leaving (Villa/Torres)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times Fernando tells David he's leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for infidelity.
> 
> I wrote this more than a year ago, and it was supposed to be a 4+1 fic and I was keen on finishing it but I've realized that I never will, so why waste what I already have? I'm actually quite fond of this, and it doesn't feel like it's hanging even though it's technically incomplete, so.

**i.** “I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.”

It’s barely past dawn, and the sun is painting Fernando’s body with splashes of colour: streaks of gold and stripes of orange, his eyes luminescent with sunlight and some other brighter, more liquid light.

“What?” David croaks, voice raspy due to all the alcohol he had the night before. He reaches out for Fernando, to curl his fingers around his bicep, or trace that lone freckle by his sternum, but Fernando pulls away.

Even through his hangover, David feels a sense of growing unease. “Fernando, what are you talking about?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he repeats, voice louder, but with no more conviction. “You’re married, David. You have a daughter. I have a girlfriend. We can’t – we shouldn’t be doing this.”

David just looks at Fernando, trying to blink away his hangover and the pressure that’s building up inside his chest.

“I love Olalla,” Fernando says quietly. “I hate hurting her.” He cups David’s cheek gently; his fingers are ice-cold, but that’s not the reason David flinches away. “I don’t want to hurt you either, but…” He gives a helpless shrug, looking terribly young and vulnerable, the epitome of his nickname. “I’m sorry.”

David says nothing. It’s not like he hasn’t had the same thoughts that are plaguing Fernando. He loves Patricia, he really does, and Zaida’s had his heart since he first laid eyes on her, but.

He loves Fernando too, so much that it scares him sometimes, even though he’d never admit it. And what they have has become an invaluable part of his life, as natural and necessary as breathing.

“David,” Fernando says urgently, guilt and anxiety tearing up his voice. “Please say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” David says blankly. “‘Congratulations, Fernando, I hope everything works out perfectly in your life and you live happily ever after with your girlfriend’?”

Heat flushes across Fernando’s cheeks, finally giving some colour to his pale face. David’s glad to see it; he wants Fernando riled up, angry, _hurt_ , so that he’s not alone.

“I’m sorry,” Fernando whispers again, sounding like he’s hoping those two little words would make everything all right. “I don’t want to do this, David, I don’t want—”

“Spare it,” David says shortly, holding up a hand. He doesn’t know what he’ll say, or do, if Fernando keeps talking, whether it’s reaching for him or pushing him away. “Just…get out, Torres. Get out.”

“Torres?” Fernando echoes, hurting flashing across his face. “Is that all I am to you now?”

“Get out,” David repeats, because Fernando is so many things to him, so many indescribable, infinitely precious things, and he’s already unravelled almost all of David’s self-control. David just wants one thread left, one thin strand of strength to hold him through the day.

And Fernando does. He collects his clothes, pulling them on hurriedly, blonde head ducked, avoiding eye contact with David, who stays in bed, a white-knuckled grip in the sheets.

“I love you more than anything, you know,” Fernando tells David, quiet, matter-of-fact, and then he walks out the door, leaving behind a pale and stricken David.

 

 **ii.** David is lying on his hotel bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, when someone pushes open the door.

“Whoever it is, go away,” he says, continuing his thrilling activity of counting the little black dots on the ceiling.

“David,” a soft voice, as familiar to him as his own, says. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“I’m busy,” David says shortly.

“Yes, staring out at empty space is really fascinating.”

“Torres, if you have something constructive to say, then say it and get out.” David sits up sharply, fixing Fernando with his most impressive glare. “Otherwise, just get out.”

“David,” Fernando says, an edge of pleading in his voice that David’s almost never heard before. “Please.”

David sighs, his shoulder slumping in defeat. Even now, after three months of dodging Fernando and calling him “Torres,” three months of avoiding those dark eyes and ignoring his attempts to talk, Fernando still has the ability to make him weak just by looking at him, just by saying his name.

“Fine, but make it quick. Pepe’s coming back soon.”

“No, he’s not,” Fernando counters, a faint smile at the corners of his lips. “I asked him to stay away for a while.”

“And he listened to you?” David says incredulously.

Fernando shrugs. “Pepe wants us to get back together,” he says, voice matter-of-fact.

“And you?” David can’t resist asking. “What do you want?”

“I—” A troubled look comes over Fernando’s face, a torn expression in his eyes. David feels a cold fist of dread seize his heart.

Fernando bites his lip, all wide eyes and hunched shoulders. David wants to reach across the room and take Fernando into his arms, just hold him and breathe him in.

“I have to tell you something first,” Fernando says. “I’m leaving.”

David gives him a blank stare.

“I hurt my ankle while doing some supplementary training,” Fernando says. “I’m not fit for the game. I’m going back to Liverpool.”

“Why were you doing supplementary training? You just recovered from an injury, idiot, you shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

“Are you worried about me?” Fernando asks with a teasing smile.

“Yes, I’m worried, because I didn’t know you were such a moron.”

“I just – I wanted to be ready,” Fernando says quietly. “I wanted to play today. You know things…haven’t been the greatest.”

There it is again, that desire to hold Fernando, a sharp crest of longing, as if his arms have a mind of their own and even they want Fernando, ache for Fernando.

“But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about,” Fernando says. “I just had to tell you that because I have to leave soon. But—” he runs his tongue over his lips, looking nervous and yet somehow resolved. “I meant what I said before. That I loved you more than anything. That I love you more than anything.”

“Why are you telling me this now,” David says flatly, squashing down that swell of hope that balloons inside his chest.

“Because – I miss you.” Fernando walks up to David, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks at David, his expression earnest, his jaw set. “I’ve missed you so much. And even now, even though you’re right here, I still miss you.” His voice breaks, and he reaches out for David, who flinches away from his touch.

“You were the one who left me,” David reminds him, his voice a whisper, all of his usual defences stripped away at the sight of Fernando’s pain, all the scorn and fire and bite. He feels like he’s left raw and exposed, unprotected, _vulnerable_. It’s always been like this with Fernando, and he hates it, but he can’t change it, can’t control himself around the man in front of him who owns so much of him.

“I wanted to give you more,” Fernando says. “I couldn’t offer you anything other than sneaking around and going behind everyone’s backs and hiding. Always hiding and lying.”

“I can’t offer you anything more than that either. You knew this, going into it. I did too. And I’m fine with it.” (Well he isn’t, not really, but he’d rather have Fernando, even if it’s only in hidden corners and locked rooms, than not have Fernando at all.)

“But I’m not.” Fernando looks absolutely wretched. “I’m not fine with it. You deserve more, and I do too. We deserve more. I want more for us.”

David notices that he’s using present tense, that the anguish in his face is just as intense as it was that morning, if not more. David still has scars, but Fernando’s wounds seem new and raw, open and bleeding freely, right in front of David.

“I can’t leave Patricia,” David says flatly. “I have a daughter and a family, Fernando. I’m not going to give that up—”

“I know,” Fernando cuts him off. “I’m not asking you to. I would never ask you to.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I thought that if I couldn’t have all of you, then I would rather just not have you at all,” Fernando says, his voice as fragile as crystal, and as clear too, full of his longing and pain. “But I can’t… I can’t not have you. I need you.”

“Fernando,” David whispers, struck silent by all the things that he wants to say.

“You called me Fernando again,” he says, his smile so bright that David’s heart lurches.

“You were never Torres to me, you know. Even if I called you that for three months.”

“Three months and twelve days,” Fernando says quietly.

“You don’t know the number of hours?” David tries for a smile, and for the first time in three months and twelve days, it almost comes easily.

“What do you think I am, a pining teenage girl?” Fernando snorts, but he returns the smile, a shy edge to it that David hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Well, you have the freckles for it.”

“You like my freckles,” Fernando retorts, not batting an eye, and then he leans in close, putting one hand on David’s chest, the other one hesitating over his cheek, fingers an inch away from his skin. “Well, you used to. Do you still?” He bites his lip, that nervous but resolved look in his eyes again, and David knows that the question is about much more than freckles.

“Yeah,” David says softly, tilting his chin up so that Fernando’s palm cover his cheek, pale fingers spanning over his skin firmly, greedily, like he can’t get enough of touching him. “I do. I like them a lot.”

“Good,” Fernando breathes, the syllable filled with hope. “That’s good.” He pulls David closer to him, and then even closer, until the only things separating them are their clothes and their yearning, which is finally dissipating.

“Your ankle’s okay, right?” David asks abruptly.

“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Fernando gives David a searching look. “Why?”

David smirks. “I’ll show you,” he promises, and then pins Fernando onto the bed, clutches onto him like a drowning man and kisses him and kisses him.

 

 **iii.** “David,” Fernando whispers, just as David’s about to fall asleep.

“Hmm?” David mumbles sleepily, tugging some more of the blanket over himself.

Fernando pulls David closer, wrapping a warm arm around his waist. “I have to tell you something.”

David reluctantly cracks an eye open. The only light in the room is the dim glow of the night light, the moon obscured by the heavy curtains over the window, but somehow he can make out Fernando’s face with crystal clarity, every freckle standing out like an ink blot on his pale skin.

David wants to ask Fernando if this can wait until the morning, because he’s so, so tired, but there’s something about Fernando’s expression, the doleful look in his dark eyes, the way he has his bottom lip caught between his teeth, that makes David swallow the words down.

“Okay,” he says instead, letting his fingers trail over Fernando’s ribs, feeling goosebumps break out over Fernando’s skin.

“I’m leaving Liverpool,” Fernando says, voice calm, toneless.

It’s the last thing that David had expected him to say. “You’re…what?”

“I’m leaving Liverpool,” Fernando repeats, his voice slightly strained now, even though it’s still steady, like the words are part of a speech that he’s rehearsed numerous times.

“Leaving as in…”

“As in I’m going to another club,” Fernando says, obviously impatient now.

“Which club?” A surge of hope shoots up David’s chest. Barcelona isn’t looking for strikers, he knows, but if Fernando moves to another Spanish club, even if it’s to Real Madrid—

David sees Fernando look down, his dark head blending in with the shadows, his body merely a silhouette edged in black.

“Chelsea,” Fernando finally says, softly, tentatively, like he’s waiting for David to reprimand him.

“Chelsea,” David echoes, his breath leaving him in a consuming exhale that takes more air than it leaves behind.

“Yeah,” Fernando says quietly, looking at David like he’s expecting David to yell at him.

“That’s still in England.”

“What a brilliant observation, Sherlock.”

“It’s still in England, like Liverpool.” David pauses. “Not in Spain.”

_It’s not where I am. You’re never going to be where I am, are you?_

“Chelsea is a Champions League team,” Fernando says quietly. “We have a chance of meeting—”

“Playing a game where we kick your asses doesn’t count as meeting.”

“How do you know you’ll be the ones doing the ass-kicking?” Fernando asks indignantly.

“I play for Barcelona,” David says simply.

“You’re not—” Fernando searches David’s expression. “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be?” David asks, mystified.

“I just thought…” Fernando bites his lip. “I thought you would be mad at me. Or maybe you would accuse me of being a money-hungry traitor or something.”

“It’s not like you’re doing a Figo.” David’s voice softens. “Fernando, it’s okay, you know? It’s not the end of the world. If going to Chelsea is what you want, then of course I’ll stand behind you.”

“David…” Fernando whispers, and then his arms are around David and he’s pulling David against his chest, which is so cold that David almost shivers. “Other people aren’t going to take it so well, you know,” he says quietly, like a child confessing his fear of the monster in the closet. “Especially the fans. They’ll hate me.” His voice is small but wretched, like he’s shrinking in on himself.

“You’ll have new fans,” David says, “and you’ll be able to play in the Champions League and have a shot at the Premier League.”

“Yeah…” Fernando breathes out shakily. “Champions League.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes, it is, and yet. And yet I feel like I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s normal. We’re human beings. We don’t always know what we want. And we always want more than what we have.”

“I want a lot of things,” Fernando breathes, his eyes pool of darkness, his face a portrait of chiaroscuro, white skin and black eyes, freckles like unexplored constellations.

Just looking at him sends a sharp pang through David’s chest, a pang of longing and desire and protectiveness.

“I do too,” David says, softly. “I want…” He wants too many things to count or name, but so many of them boil down to the young man in front of him, so pale he seems to shine in the darkness. “I want.”

“What do you want right now?” Fernando asks, dark eyes trained on David’s face.

As a reply, David pulls him into a kiss, tangling his fingers in Fernando’s hair, pressing as close to him as possible. Fernando’s skin still feels icy cold, but it seems to warm under David’s touch, the steady beat of his heart pulsing against David’s fingertips, a metronome whose rhythm he has long memorized.


	16. Second Chances and Converging Paths (Kaká/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano and Kaká aren't footballers. They're just two guys who are finding out the hard way that love doesn't pay the bills. [Taken from the prompt; Recession AU.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt at fk2 on LJ (a billion years ago. Okay, last last October, which feels like a billion years ago). This is all I wrote, and there won't be any more, but I quite like what I have so I decided to just post it.

“Hey,” Ricardo says, walking into the room with stiff shoulders and slow steps.

“Hey.” Cristiano smiles at him. “I made dinner.”

Ricardo breathes in, takes in the smell of herbs and garlic. “Smells good.” He tries to smile but doesn’t quite succeed. “Pasta?”

“Sorry, you know I barely know how to make anything else.”

“It’s okay.” Ricardo puts down his worn briefcase. “I like pasta.”

“Something happen at your job?”

Ricardo bites his lip, looks over at Cristiano and his concerned eyes. “I don’t have a job anymore,” he says softly.

Cristiano just looks at him for a long moment. “It’s okay,” he says, sounding surprisingly cheerful. “You hated that stuffy office anyway.”

“Cris.” Ricardo falters. “The bills. The rent. What are we going to—”

“We’ll figure out something. We always do, don’t we?”

Ricardo’s shoulders sag abruptly, like an invisible string’s been holding them up, and it’s suddenly been snipped.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Cristiano says softly. “It’s alright.”

“I really tried my best.”

“I know.” Cristiano pats Ricardo’s hand. “It’s just the stupid world. Everyone’s losing their jobs these days, it’s ridiculous.”

“Your job is fine,” Ricardo points out.

“It can hardly be called a job,” Cristiano snorts. “Half my teammates are balding and the other half hasn’t grown beards yet.”

Ricardo can’t help but smile; Cristiano’s always had a gift for making people smile, no matter how horrible they feel. That’s one of the main reasons Ricardo first fell in love with him.

“At least you love it. That’s really good, you know? That you love what you do.”

“I’m not sad that you lost your job,” Cristiano says evenly. “You always hated going there. Now you can go do something that you enjoy, that you love, and you can actually be happy every day.”

“I _am_ happy,” Ricardo tells him, because he really is, in this cramped little apartment that’s more of a home than any mansion could ever be, with the person he loves more than anything in the world. No amount of money could ever buy all the things he has.

Cristiano smiles, not very big or bright, but it still lights up everything inside Ricardo.

“There aren’t many job openings now, anyway,” Ricardo sighs. “I don’t see how I’m going to be able to find something.”

“You can always think about Luis’s offer, you know.”

Ricardo hesitates. “I don’t know. I just can’t – I can’t see a football pitch in the same way, after my accident.”

A pool accident when he was eighteen ended any dreams of becoming a footballer for him. Although he can walk and run (not too fast or for too long) just fine, he’s never touched a football since. And it’s not because of his spine. (Or maybe it’s because he lacks spine in a sense that’s very much not physical.)

“It’s not going to be in the same way. And I know you want to be a doctor, and this isn’t that, but it’s _something_ , you know? Something close to two things you once loved.”

“I think I still do.”

“What?” Cristiano asks, although from his expression, Ricardo thinks that he already knows.

“Love them.” Ricardo clears his throat. “Both of them.”

Medicine and football. The former he couldn’t make a life out of because of money, and the latter because of fate. But this is a chance for him now, being a trainer for Cristiano’s modest Tercera Division team, and although it’s far from a career he would’ve chosen to have, it’s not too bad of a path to walk down.

“And if I have an injury, you can touch me all you want, and nobody will be the wiser.” Cristiano grins.

“I don’t think your team is blind, Cris,” Ricardo says dryly.

“They can be _our_ team, if you want,” Cristiano says, sounding a little tentative and a lot hopeful.

 _Our team._ Ricardo likes the sound of that. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and he knows by Cristiano’s smile that Cristiano knows it really means _okay_.

The fact that it’s a path he can walk down with Cristiano right by his side – well, that makes everything a whole lot more tempting.


	17. Golden Boy (Ronaldo-centric, Ronaldo/Shayk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five people who congratulate Cristiano on winning the Ballon d'Or.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Cris is ♥. This was supposed to be very football-y, but it turned into Cristiano The Family Man instead??
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://sternenklar.lofter.com/post/1caf507d_59494d9) by riceglueball. Thank you for your time and effort!

**Five people who congratulate Cristiano on winning the Ballon d’Or**

**(i.) His mom**

“I always knew you could do it,” Cristiano’s mom whispers against his ear, her arms tight around him. She’s always given the best hugs; he thought so as a child holding back sniffles at a scraped knee, as a teenager staring stoically at his dad wasting away, as a young man yearning for his family in a strange country, and he still thinks so now.

A lot of things have changed in his life: his home, his bank account, his football, but this – his mom’s warmth, her support, her love – it’s never changed, never wavered, and he feels like he’s never been more grateful for it than he is now.

“I’m so proud of you, Cristiano.” She dabs at her eyes again, and he can feel the wetness in his own, but he doesn’t move to brush the tears away. There is no shame in crying during occasions like this, no weakness.

Here, in his mom’s arms, with Junior clinging to his knee and tears sliding down his face, he feels strong, he feels warm, he feels happy.

He feels like a victor, and it’s not just about the trophy in his grasp.

 

**(ii.) Sergio**

“Hey, congratulations, man.” Sergio pulls him into a quick but tight hug. “I’m sure you know perfectly well you deserve it, but just let me tell you again.” He grins, easy and genuine and utterly Sergio. “You deserve it more than anyone. You really do.”

Cristiano smiles. His eyes are dry now, but there is still that lingering feeling of warmth in his chest, and he wonders how long it’ll take for that to subside.

“Thank you.” He’s said those two words so many times already, but he doesn’t mean them any less. “Thanks. I-I’m really happy.”

“Of course you’re happy. Who wouldn’t be happy after winning the Ballon d’Or?”

“Now if only we would win some team trophies too, huh?”

It’s not 2013 anymore, after all. It’s 2014, a new year and a new beginning, and as happy as he is, as proud as he is, he needs to look ahead. They all do. He’s overjoyed to add this trophy to his cabinet, but there is so much empty space, so many spots for silverware that eluded them again and again, and he doesn’t want a season like the last, barren of trophies and smiles.

“Of course,” Sergio agrees, forehead furrowing, that same look of grim determination in his eyes. “But that’s to think about later. For now just—celebrate and be happy, yeah?” He smiles, and it’s really a smile instead of a grin; softer, gentler, and still very much Sergio.

“I am,” Cristiano tells him, honestly, simply. “I am.”

 

 **(iii.)** **Irina**

Cristiano feels like he’s given and been given so many handshakes, hugs and pats on the back that it’s become an automatic, mechanical routine: see person, smile, say “thank you” when they congratulate him, and either go for a handshake or a hug, depending on how they move.

His contacts are starting to bother him, and he wryly wonders if tears are bad for contacts. He sure wasn’t going to wear his glasses to the Ballon d’Or gala. He rubs at his eyes, blinking hard, and he sees the vague, blurry shape of someone approach him.

“Poor thing,” she teases. “Are you crying again?”

“What if I was?” His vision clears up, and Irina comes into focus, her mascara slightly smudged and a brightness about her face that has nothing to do with makeup or lighting. Cristiano smiles. Even almost four years later, just the sight of her can make him smile. “Do you have a handkerchief handy?”

“I don’t know,” she returns teasingly. “I might have one…somewhere. Do you want to try to find it?”

When he puts his arms around her, it’s nothing like the dozens of hugs he’s already given out, and not just because she’s soft and familiar against him, warm in a way that goes beyond temperature.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” Irina says gently, and he nods, and even though he’s the one holding her, he feels like she’s the one who’s keeping him up. “I’m so proud of you.” She smiles at him, cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling, a smile that the cameras haven’t had the privilege of seeing, but he has, many times.

Something clenches in his chest every time he sees it, anyway, and knows that it’s all for him, just for him.

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Cristiano says, only half-joking. His voice is embarrassingly thick, and he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

She smiles again, softer at the edges. When she smiles like that, her left dimple always stands out more than her right one. He doesn’t know why, and he’s never told her, but he likes that. He likes it a lot.

“Well then,” Irina says. “I guess I’ll have to bring a handkerchief with me to awards ceremonies from now on.”

“That might be a good idea.”

Cristiano leans in to kiss her, and she meets him halfway, smiling against his mouth, like she did right after Pelé announced his name, and his eyes are closed, but he sees her as clear as day anyway. He thinks that she’s beautiful, not just that she looks beautiful (even though she does, of course she does), but she _is_ beautiful, and he thinks that he’s lucky to have her, and then he gives up on thinking when she curls a hand in his collar and tugs him closer, closer, until there’s barely anything between them at all, not even air.

 

 **(iv.)** **Messi**

“Hey.”

Just as Cristiano’s about to leave, a hand catches his sleeve, and he turns around, coming face to face with Messi.

“Oh, hey,” Cristiano returns, feeling rather awkward for some reason. For the past four years, it’s been him congratulating Messi, and it almost feels strange to be on the other end of the congratulations. Messi’s small smile looks genuine, though, and it puts Cristiano at ease.

“I just wanted to say congratulations.” Messi tugs on a cuff link, and Cristiano idly thinks that his suit is really quite terrible. He doesn’t know who let him out the door wearing something like that. (But given Neymar’s and Alves’ ensembles…maybe it’s something in the water in Barcelona.) “You had a great year, and I think you deserve it.”

“Thank you,” Cristiano says politely, reflexively. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Messi shrugs. “Just telling the truth.”

Cristiano studies him for a moment. He wonders if Messi laments missing the end of 2013 due to injury, if he thinks that made the difference between first and second place, if he believes he deserves this Ballon d’Or, if he believes he deserves all the rest of his Ballon d’Ors.

Then he realizes he’s really projecting his own thoughts onto Messi, and like Sergio told him, he wants to be celebrating right now, not projecting or musing or whatever the hell he’s doing, so he stops thinking so hard and looks at the door again. He can almost see the people outside who are waiting for him, even though they’re too far away to actually catch sight of. Not just waiting for him to celebrate, but waiting for _him_.

“Thanks,” Cristiano repeats, a little quieter this time. He gestures to the door. “My family’s waiting for me, so.”

“Oh.” Messi blinks. “Yeah, it’s late, isn’t it? Way past your son’s bedtime, I bet.”

“Nah, I usually let him stay up until midnight.” Cristiano gives an easy grin, and Messi smiles back. “Your son must’ve been asleep for a while now.”

Messi shrugs again. “He’s too young to understand, anyway.”

“Well maybe next year, he will,” Cristiano says casually. “I’m not letting it go so easily, just so you know.”

Messi raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

Cristiano smiles again. He’s forgotten that conversations with Messi could be quite fun, when he climbs out of that quiet exterior and lets that wry sense of humour out. Cristiano hasn’t gotten many occasions to see it, but when he does, he quite enjoys it.

“See you later then.” He raises his hand in lieu of a wave, and then he’s pushing open the door and cold air is rushing inside to meet him, but he doesn’t feel the chill touch him.

He stops right before walking out. “And hey, Leo?”

“Yeah?”

Cristiano smiles. “I like your suit.”

Leo’s mouth twitches up at the corner. “I like yours too,” he says evenly, and Cristiano tosses an “I’ll give you the number of my tailor!” over his shoulder, before walking into the night, feeling somehow lighter even with the solid weight of the trophy tucked securely against his side.

 

 **(v.)** **His son**

“Papai, can I hold it?” Junior shakes his arm insistently, practically bouncing on his tiptoes. Despite his sleepiness only half an hour ago, he seems perfectly fine now, running around the aisles of the plane like he’s on a sugar rush. “Please?”

“Sure, big guy.” Cristiano knows that it’s too heavy for Junior to carry, so he puts his hands over his son’s and they hold the trophy together, golden and almost glowing in the light.

“It’s pretty,” Junior declares, and Cristiano chuckles.

“Yes, it is.”

“And—big.” Junior spreads his palms as far apart as he can to demonstrate his idea of enormity. (It’s a good thing Cristiano’s holding it, or he would have just done a Sergio.)

“Yep, it’s a big, pretty trophy.”

Junior latches onto his arm and looks at him with those big brown eyes. “Are you happy you won it, Papai?”

“Yes, I’m very happy.”

Cristiano sets the Ballon d’Or down to the side and picks Junior up, swinging him into his lap. He thinks ruefully that in a few years Junior won’t want him to do that, will want to sit on his own chair, and a few years after that, he’ll be too big to fit on Cristiano’s lap and go running off with his friends instead. Children grow up so fast; he feels like it was merely yesterday when his son was a tiny, wailing bundle in a blanket that he gazed at with almost reverent wonder.

(He still looks at him like that many times now, though. He still thinks of Junior as a gift he was given, and sometimes he thinks he doesn’t deserve him, but most of the time he’s just grateful for him. When he’s not drawing on Cristiano’s face with a laundry marker or throwing food around, that is.)

“But do you know what makes me even happier?” Cristiano asks.

“What?”

He ruffles his son’s hair. “My little Cris. You make Papai the happiest guy in the world. You know that, right?”

In a few years Junior will be embarrassed by statements like that, but for now he just grins and chirps, “Yep!”

“The happiest guy in the world,” Cristiano repeats, hugging his son close, wishing that he could keep this night, this memory, with him forever, less than an arm’s length away, so he could return to it and wrap it around him like a blanket in those darker, colder nights.

“Papai is the best,” Junior declares. “Papai should win all the big, pretty tophies!”

Cristiano laughs softly. “That would be nice. But I don’t need all the trophies in the world, Cris. I’ve got everything I need right here on this plane.”

Junior looks around with as much intensity a toddler can muster, and then he scrunches up his face. “But there’s no ball here.”

Sometimes Cristiano forgets how much children see and understand, how smart they can be in a way that’s so different from and often beyond adult intelligence, but his son never fails to remind him.

“Okay, with a football,” he concedes. “You’re a smart guy, aren’t you?” He gently tweaks Junior’s nose, and Junior giggles and nods profusely.

“I want a tophy too,” Junior says solemnly, pointing to the Ballon d’Or, which Cristiano is ready to move if Junior starts running around again and trips over it. A plane can be quite the dangerous place for a child to run around, especially a child as hyperactive as his. “I want to win _lots_ like Papai.”

“Yeah?” Cristiano smiles. “Are you going to be a great footballer like Papai?”

“Yes,” Junior declares. “I gonna be great baller like Papai!”

He would support Junior no matter what he decides to do (okay, maybe not if he wanted to be a criminal or a Culé or something like that), but he has to admit that he’s always wanted his son to be a footballer, always wanted him to follow in Cristiano’s footsteps. It’s—heartening, that his son wants to be like him.

“You’re already a winner in my eyes,” he tells Junior, planting a kiss on his cheek. Junior giggles again and reaches for Cristiano’s face, trying to reciprocate, but he loses his balance and almost topples off Cristiano’s lap. “Whoa there, be careful, champ.”

“Papai?” Junior suddenly whispers, like he’s telling a secret.

“Yeah, champ?”

Junior puts his mouth right up to Cristiano’s ear. “You’re the bestest ever.”

Cristiano smiles broadly; his son is really just too cute. “Yeah, the bestest, not just the bester?”

“The bestestestest!” Junior declares. “The bestestestest baller and the bestestestest papai!”

Cristiano’s smile is so wide he feels like his face might split from it. “And they say I spoil you. I think you’re the one who spoils me.”

“What does spoil mean?” Junior blinks at him, wide-eyed and sweet.

“It means that I love you very much.” Cristiano ruffles his hair again. “And you make me so happy. So, so happy.”

“The happiestestest?”

“The happiestestestest,” he confirms, and although that’s not a real word, he feels like it sums up what he’s feeling perfectly.


	18. The (Not So) Last Time (Torres/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando tells Sergio it’s the last time a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for infidelity. (Definitely my most used - and pretty much only - warning, lol.)

“Olalla’s pregnant.”

Sergio just stares at him for a long moment, face blank, before he gives a smile that’s actually painful to look at.

“Congratulations,” he tells Fernando, and something wrenches inside Fernando because Sergio actually sounds genuine.

“Thank you,” Fernando replies, more mechanically than anything else.

“Is it a boy or girl?”

“We don’t know yet. It’s too early to tell, and Olalla says she might want it to be a surprise.”

“Hmm. Surprises are nice.”

Fernando digs his nails so hard into his palms that he feels blood pool within the gouges. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Fer?” Sergio looks at him, face abruptly exhausted. There’s something else there too, though, something closer to resignation than exhaustion, like Sergio’s giving up already.

Fernando hates that. He doesn’t want Sergio to give up, and he doesn’t want to give up Sergio, give up what they have, because he’s never had anything that could possibly compare to it. (And he thinks that he never will, but how can he tell Sergio that, after the news of Olalla’s pregnancy?)

“What more is there to be said?” Sergio adds, something dying in his eyes.

“I love you.”

“Don’t,” Sergio whispers. “Don’t say that now, Fernando.”

“But I do.” Fernando takes a step closer towards Sergio, watching as something flickers in Sergio’s eyes. Something alive, something warm, something _Sergio_.

“Olalla is going to have your child,” Sergio says, half a reminder, half a goodbye.

“I know.” Fernando swallows. “Just one last time, Serge, please?”

And Sergio gives in to him, because it’s Fernando and Sergio’s never been strong enough to deny him.

“You’re going to be a dad,” Sergio says, their legs tangled together under the blanket, Sergio absentmindedly running his fingers through Fernando’s hair. There’s a new tone to Sergio’s voice now, an edge of wonder.

“I know,” Fernando whispers. “I can’t believe it either.”

“You’re going to be a great dad, Fer,” Sergio tells him, all warm sincerity, and Fernando feels like something’s dying inside him too.

 

“This is the last time,” he whispers when he presses Sergio against the wall, kissing him with all teeth and tongue and no tenderness, leaving red marks behind on Sergio’s back with his nails.

“The last time,” Sergio agrees, his voice a breathy whisper when Fernando tugs his pants off roughly. It’s hard to read the mixture of emotions in his eyes, but Fernando can recognize the pain easily, so he closes his eyes and buries his face into Sergio’s hair.

Fernando comes first, releasing into Sergio with a choked moan. Wordlessly, he slips to his knees and takes Sergio into his mouth, watches the way Sergio flings his head against the wall and his reddened, kiss-swollen mouth forms an ‘O’ when he comes.

Fernando tucks Sergio back into his pants, zipping him up. He leans back against the wall, trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding a frantic staccato.

“Your come’s dripping down my thighs, asshole,” Sergio says. “You couldn’t bring a condom?”

“Sorry.” Fernando offers an apologetic smile. “I’ll remember that next ti—” His expression freezes.

“This is the last time,” Sergio reminds him, his voice bleak. “Remember what you said.”

“I will,” Fernando says, trying to sound calm and sure, when in fact there is a deep, wrenching pain in his chest. He tries to push the feeling away, reminding himself that he’s supposed to be happy, he’s supposed to be glowing with joy actually, full of love, and not for the person standing next to him.

“Come on,” Sergio says softly. “You have to get going before they think you left your beautiful bride at the altar.”

“Yeah.” Fernando brushes back his hair, feeling abruptly exhausted.

“Come on, Fer,” Sergio says, softer now, tugging on Fernando’s hand, leading him away, towards his bride-to-be, towards his future.

Fernando realizes that he doesn’t want a future without Sergio.

 

Olalla looks absolutely radiant in her understated white dress, nothing flashy or extravagant about it. Her long, dark hair is held back with a simple clip, and she’s holding a single flower: a long-stemmed white lily. It’s the first flower he ever gave her, and he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that she has one right now.

“Hey,” Fernando says softly.

Olalla’s face lights up when she sees him, and he doesn’t think that she could look any lovelier than she does right now. She’s never needed make-up or pretty clothes to look beautiful; all she needs is a bright smile or a happy glow, and she’s practically lit up with her joy at the moment.

“Fernando, you’re not supposed to be here right now.” She reaches up to fix his collar. He hopes that Sergio hadn’t left any love bites behind. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess and your clothes are all wrinkled.”

“You still want to marry me, right?” He smiles.

She rolls her eyes. “If you’re waiting for me to get cold feet, then too bad. It’s not happening.”

Fernando chuckles and holds her to him, and she tucks her face into his shoulder.

“You smell...weird,” she says. “All sweaty.”

He stiffens, his muscles locking up, before he reminds himself to relax. Forces himself to relax. “I...er, got nervous. Me and Sergio played some football. Just kicking a ball back and forth. That’s why I look...not so cleaned up.”

“You boys and your football,” Olalla sighs. “Well, go get yourself fixed up. I don’t want a husband who looks like he just rolled out of bed.”

Fernando doesn’t know whether to smile or grimace at the irony. “I thought we were supposed to love each other through sickness and health and all that. Doesn’t that include bad hair days too?”

“Oh, Nando.” She smiles. “You don’t have bad hair days. You have bad hair weeks.” He drinks in her smile, the warmth in her eyes and the way she’s absentmindedly brushing the petals of the lily she’s holding.

“I love you,” he says, pulling her into his arms again, holding onto her tightly like he’s drowning and she’s the only thing anchoring him to the world. “You know that right? I love you.”

She sounds a little startled when she replies. “I love you too, Fernando.” She runs her fingers through his hair tenderly. “I know you love me. It’s okay to get wedding jitters, you know.”

“I’m not jittery,” he says, his breath shaky when he works up a smile. “I’m just...a little overwhelmed.”

“Okay. Why don’t you go find Sergio? He always knows what to do to help you.”

Fernando’s smile doesn’t waver, even as he feels something like a stab right in his chest.

“Sure.”

She puts her hand on her stomach. “This one’s just as restless as you are. He’s been kicking all day.” She always calls the baby a ‘he’ even though they don’t know what gender it is, because she says that he kicks just like his dad. A born footballer, even in her womb.

“Do you have jitters too?” He kneels down and puts his head tenderly against her stomach. “How come you don’t kick when Daddy’s here?”

“Maybe because he doesn’t like you.”

Fernando gives her a dirty look. “I’m sure that—” He forgets what he was going to say when he sees a familiar figure staring at them with heartbreak written all over his face.

“What?” she asks curiously.

“Sergio’s here,” he says, voice hoarse and ragged. He knows what Sergio sees when he looks at them: a happy, united, perfect family, the soon-to-be-parents childhood sweethearts, the bride-to-be swollen with their child. And there is no space for Sergio by Fernando’s side. None at all.

(Fernando reminds himself that he should be thinking this way too. He can’t cheat on Olalla anymore, not when they’re going to be married soon and they’re going to be _parents_. And yet—Fernando still wants Sergio, just as much as before. Maybe even more. He can’t stop wanting Sergio, no matter how much he has.)

“Oh, is he? I haven’t seen him in so long.” Olalla’s smiling brightly; Fernando hopes that she doesn’t see Sergio’s expression is the exact opposite.

Fernando looks at Olalla, the joyful aura she’s radiating, the white dress hugging her frame, the large bulge of her stomach where their child is growing, and he knows that talking to her would break Sergio.

Although Sergio’s incredibly strong, stronger than anyone Fernando knows (and certainly stronger than Fernando, who’s never been able to leave Sergio, no matter how many times he says “this is the last time”), he can only take so much. Talking to his lover’s glowing, jubilant, pregnant soon-to-be-wife would be the last straw.

“I don’t think he wants to talk right now,” Fernando says quickly, desperately hunting for an excuse, but unable to find one.

“Why not?” she asks him, obviously confused.

“Because—” _Because he loves me, and we’ve been sleeping together for years behind your back, and I told him that when we fucked ten minutes ago, it was supposed to be the last time, but. I can’t. I can’t be without him._ ”Because he gets all nervous and tongue-tied around pregnant women. It’s a thing.” Fernando even gives a convincing smile.

“Men.” Olalla rolls her eyes. “You’re such an...interesting bunch.”

“Aren’t we?” he laughs, while his eyes fix on Sergio’s, a thousand words passing between their eyes, a hundred messages.

Fernando doesn’t see a single happy word, a single message that’s not _goodbye_ , and his heart sinks so low he can no longer feel it beating.


	19. It's Just Us (Casillas/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker’s always struggled with control when it comes to Cristiano, always found it hard to say no, to turn away, and he doesn’t think it’s a problem. It’s just—them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something quick I wrote for Cris' birthday. Well, it wasn't actually quick, because I'm totally incapable of writing footie fic now and this was actually a massive struggle to write, but I think it turned out okay. And I've been meaning to write Cris a birthday fic for a long time now, so :))

Cristiano has been smiling and cheerful the whole day, even after the match, even though they could all tell how frustrated he was that he couldn’t score. And it has nothing to do with his birthday, really, because there isn’t a single day when Cristiano doesn’t want to score, no matter the opponent, competition, or scoreline. Even during training, Cristiano is so intent, so serious, his eyes set on the goal with a focus that froze Antonio and Jesús the first time they trained with him.

Iker is not impervious to that expression either. He has to admit, he’s been more than a little nervous practicing against Cristiano for set pieces (and even though it’s training, it feels very much like practicing _against_ , rather than _with_ , because it’s still Cristiano, who treats every game like a final, who never settles for second best), and he usually leaves the practice with his hands stinging and his clothes covered with grass stains.

“I did want a goal for my birthday though,” Cristiano admits to Iker later, quietly, half a breath and half a whisper. His hair is damp from the shower and curlier than Iker’s seen it in a while, and maybe it’s the lighting or maybe it’s something else, but his eyes look darker than ever, closer to black than brown.

Iker can’t look away from them, but that’s nothing new. He’s always struggled with control when it comes to Cristiano, always found it hard to say no, to turn away, and he doesn’t think it’s a problem. It’s just—them.

“Just one?” Iker teases.

“Well, maybe a hat trick.”

“I’m sorry you were disappointed.” Iker’s tone is light, but he means it and he knows that Cristiano will know. They understand each other like that, despite all their differences, probably because they’re similar in the ways that matter.

“It’s okay.” Cristiano smiles, and it’s faint and rather tired but real. “I can’t score every match.”

“Whoa there.” Iker makes a show out of rubbing his ears. “Did I just hear Cristiano Ronaldo admitting that he isn’t a machine?”

Cristiano makes a face. “Cristiano Ronaldo needs a break right now and it’s just Cris here.”

Iker chuckles, “Just Cris is more than welcome,” and puts an arm around Cristiano, who leans against him and tucks his head against the juncture between Iker’s neck and shoulder. His body falls loose against Iker’s, and Iker tightens his hold, wishing that he could keep Cristiano in his arms, safe and protected, for longer than these brief moments.

“Iker? What are you thinking?”

Iker looks up, and Cristiano is blinking at him with those liquid brown eyes, looking curious and boyish and very young.

“How much I like you,” he says honestly, with more bare sentiment than he usually lets himself express, and a smile breaks across Cristiano’s face, more brilliant than any of the times he tries to dazzle. He doesn’t need to try, Iker thinks.

“I hope it’s a lot,” Cristiano says, only half-playfully.

Iker kisses him, quick but lingering, and he feels Cristiano smile against his lips, feels his own mouth pulls up in response.

“It’s a hell of a lot,” he murmurs against Cristiano’s mouth, the words distorted, but he has a feeling Cristiano hears them just fine anyway.

“Iker?”

“Yeah?”

Cristiano suddenly springs up with child-like eagerness, eyes bright and lit up with something mischievous and cheerful, something that makes Iker slightly wary and very warm. Cristiano bites his bottom lip and looks up through his lashes, and his eyes are dark in a different sense now.

“I couldn’t get a hat trick on the pitch, but I can think of another place I could get one.”

Iker can already imagine how tired he’s going to be tomorrow (Cristiano seems to have the stamina of a teenager, and it’s not something Iker would think to complain about, but he certainly can’t match him in that department), but he knows there’s no way he can deny that look.

“A hat trick. That’s kind of ambitious, isn’t it?”

Cristiano shrugs, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “I’m an ambitious person.” He kisses Iker again, more purposeful this time, firmer and deeper, fingers dragging through his hair and then cupping his jaw, possessive but gentle. “You’re not going to say no to me, are you?” he breathes against Iker’s mouth.

“You know I’m terrible at saying no to you.”

“Yeah.” Cristiano’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “You know I don’t exactly mind.”

“Yeah.” Iker smiles too. “I know.”

He knows that very well, and he doesn’t mind either. Before, earlier on in their relationship, he didn’t like how easily Cristiano broke through his barriers, how weak he was when it came to Cristiano, but he’s come to accept a long time ago that Cristiano didn’t make him weak at all. Quite the opposite, actually.

Their relationship isn’t the most romantic, isn’t the most orthodox, but also, it couldn’t have made him happier. He’s not a man for words, and neither is Cristiano, but most of the time, they don’t need words, because they know each other, understand each other, in a way that transcends the need for things to be said to be heard. And when they do need words, they’ll give them to each other, because that’s how they work: they try their best to give each other what they need.

It’s just them.

It’s just love.


	20. A Little Extra Ordinary (Casillas/Villa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker is a drifting freelance writer, grounded by his feelings for his roommate David, a struggling medicine student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really belated gift for fionella_07. I hope you still remember asking me for Cavilla, and like with all my other WIPs, sorry it's not finished and probably never will be.

“You’ve been skipping meals again, haven’t you?” Iker says accusingly, poking a finger into David’s side. He can practically feel David’s ribs, and it worries him beyond words.

David makes a face. “It’s finals week; I’ve been busy studying.”

“You should eat,” Iker insists. “What good is studying if you starve to death?”

“What good is eating if I fail out of medical school, get buried under my debts and end up playing the guitar in the subway for food money?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iker scoffs. “You don’t even know how to play the guitar.”

That gets a laugh from David, albeit a tired one, but his eyes crinkle, lines fanning around the corners that Iker loves seeing. It’s the first genuine laugh Iker has heard from him in a long time.

“You know, Iker.” David leans his hip against the counter. “If you want me to eat so much, you could cook something halfway decent once in a while.”

“What’s wrong with my cooking?” Iker asks, injured.

“All you know how to make is omelettes and grilled cheese sandwiches,” David points out. “Honestly, the frozen aisle offers better choices than that.”

Iker tries to think of a comeback to that, but he fails miserably. It’s not that he hates cooking or he doesn’t bother with it – he just doesn’t have an aptitude for it, that’s all. His best efforts usually result in either the fire alarm going off or food that looks more suited for a science lab experiment than dinner. Usually both.

“I use two different kinds of cheese for the sandwiches,” Iker says lamely, “and I can add ham, if you want.”

Something softens in David’s eyes. “It’s okay. Just don’t go on any cooking shows in the future.”

“Okay. If you promise to eat more, I’ll promise to do that.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” David says, but the corner of his mouth is pulled up, and those lines are there again.

“That’s how I got to where I am.”

He’s not exactly on a social pedestal. His family is quite well-off, so although he doesn’t have a job (being a freelance journalist isn’t nearly as nice as it sounds), he doesn’t have to worry about money. The same can’t be said for David, who’s neck-high in debt for his undergraduate _and_ graduate school fees, which is why Iker pays most of the rent for their shared apartment. David feels terrible about it, but Iker insists that it’s no problem for him.

“How’s the job hunting going?” David asks sympathetically.

“About as good as my cooking.”

“I don’t think anything can be as awful as your cooking,” David says in a very serious tone.

“Hey, you should be nicer to me.” Iker puts a stern look on his face. “I could kick you out of here.”

It’s supposed to a light-hearted joke, but Iker regrets it instantly as a shadow falls over David’s face.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Iker says quickly.

David shakes his head. “I know it’s not fair to you that you’re paying most of the rent, and I’m not even helping out with any of the cooking or cleaning, I’m just—”

“You’re studying, that’s important. This is what becoming a doctor takes, years of hard work and sweat and some missed bills. It’s no big deal.”

“I’m just mooching off you,” David finishes his sentence. “I’ll pay you back one day. I promise.” His jaw is set, and there is a hard, resolute look in his eyes. Iker hasn’t seen that look too many times, but he knows what it means.

David has made up his mind, and he won’t rest until he accomplishes what he set out to do. He won’t give up or in before he gets what he wants.

“You don’t have to pay me back. We’re friends. Friends help each other.”

“Friends don’t mooch off their friends.”

“Yes, they do.” Iker raises an eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, Pepe’s purpose in life is to mooch off everybody he knows, especially you.”

David snorts, the sound carrying the distinct trace of a laugh. “Well, Pepe’s different. He’s practically a different species. You really can’t compare ordinary people to him.”

“I don’t think you’re an ordinary person,” Iker says, his eyes fixed on David’s.

He thinks that David is extraordinary, with the way he puts aside the time to pour over job ads with Iker and give him shoulder massages even though he gets three hours of sleep on average a night, with the way he can write twenty-page lab reports and yet stumble over a birthday card message, with the way he can make Iker breathless just by walking into the room.

“Of course not, I’m special.”

David smirks, but something flashes in his eyes when he looks at Iker. His eyes, a warm ocher, nothing close to the black so many people think they are, pause over Iker’s face, lingering on his eyes, as if David’s searching for something.

Iker can’t help the blush that steals over his cheeks. He looks at David all the time, whether he’s gnawing on his bottom lip trying to solve a difficult chemical equation, or drifting to sleep with his head pillowed on a textbook, but it’s so different when the tables are turned, when he’s the receiver of attention rather than the giver.

“You have something on your face,” David says, his fingers gently brushing over Iker’s jaw. He comes away with a small white wisp, probably a tiny bit of cotton or something.

“Oh.” Iker blinks hard, trying to hide the way his whole body had stiffened upon David’s touch. Not because it was unpleasant or unwanted, but the exact opposite. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

David looks at him for another long moment that stretches out between them like a ribbon pulled taut. Iker can’t bring himself to tear it.

“I have to study for my biochem final,” David mumbles, going from staring intently at Iker to avoiding eye contact completely. Iker doesn’t know which one he prefers.

“Oh, okay.” Iker pauses. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” David throws him a quick smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, before he heads off to his room.

Iker goes to get a glass of water, and then he presses his face against the fridge, feeling an entirely different sort of cold spread through his chest.

 

The next morning, Iker is woken up by the mouth-watering smell of sizzling bacon. He rubs his eyes blearily as he drags his feet to the kitchen, bringing his hand to his mouth to stifle a stream of yawns.

“Honesty, you’re such an old man,” David says, without turning around from where he’s standing by the stove, expertly flipping the bacon. He has two plates set with fluffy scrambled eggs and French toast already, and Iker’s stomach gives a grumble so loud that it reverberates around the kitchen.

“I don’t understand how you function so well on practically no sleep.” Iker opens the fridge to get out the ketchup.

“I learned to,” David says simply. “One of the many things I learned from medical school.” He slips the perfectly browned bacon onto their plates.

“I don’t like seeing you so tired all the time,” Iker says softly, looking at the dull haze of exhaustion in David’s eyes, the prominent bags under them that seem as permanent a fixture as his eyebrows.

David says nothing, but his lips pinch together ever so slightly. “Eat up,” he says, putting down their plates, sliding Iker’s right in front of him along with a fork and knife. “Do you want some butter or jam on your toast?”

“No. This is perfect already.”

A small smile flickers across David’s lips. “So don’t drown your eggs in ketchup like you always do. It looks like a bloodfest.”

“Don’t tell me you mind a little blood, Dr. Villa,” Iker teases, putting a liberal amount of ketchup over his bacon and eggs. Sue him, he likes ketchup.

“Oh, shut up.” David flicks a bread crumb at him.

Iker is about to retaliate, but then he thinks of how David especially made him food even though he has finals coming up,  and any petty thoughts of revenge fade away.

“David?”

“Hmm?” David asks absent-mindedly, a forkful of eggs raised halfway to his mouth.

“Thank you.”

Iker tries to pour as much sincerity as possible into those two words; he isn’t just thanking David for breakfast, he’s thanking David for everything that he does for Iker, all the ways that he takes care of Iker.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Iker says honestly.

“Starve,” David replies, matter-of-fact.

“David,” Iker sighs. “I’m serious.”

“Are you now?” David asks, rather offhandedly, but his eyes focus on Iker’s with startling intensity.

Iker swallows, and wonders if the question is just a flippant remark, something rhetorical to which David doesn’t expect an answer. But evidently, David does, because he’s still looking at Iker, obviously waiting.

Waiting…for what?

This feels like that moment before, after Iker said that he didn’t think David was an ordinary person, and David had replied with one of his typical cheeky responses and a smirk, only the situation didn’t feel typical at all.

This one doesn’t either. Iker feels like lately, something has changed about their comfortable friendship, something unprecedented and undefined. He doesn’t know what’s happening, exactly, but he wouldn’t call it unpleasant.

Just…different.

Iker feels like they’re hovering at the edge of something new and unexplored, something potentially dangerous but also potentially wondrous. And God, he’s terrified of taking the first step but he’s terrified of missing it too.

He’s forcibly snapped out of his thoughts when David calls his name.

“I didn’t know it was such a hard question to answer.” David looks amused, but not exactly light-spirited. “Don’t get senile on me now.”

“I’m barely any older than you,” Iker says, the only reply that comes to mind.

“The keyword here is ‘barely’.” David smiles, and flicks a piece of bacon at him, and suddenly everything is back to normal.

David is teasing him, and making cracks about his age, and the strange, intense look in his eyes had faded as fast as it’d come.

They’re just two friends sitting together enjoying breakfast again, and it’s a pleasant, ordinary scene, but that doesn’t explain why Iker’s ketchup-laden eggs leaves a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth.

 

“Something’s up between me and David,” Iker tells Xavi over coffee over the weekend.

David is preparing for his pathology and histology finals next week, which are a day apart and worth 75% and 80% of his mark, respectively. He’s piled so many notebooks, binders and books on his desk that Iker can barely see his dark, rumpled head. Iker wishes that he could help David somehow, but the most he can really do is stay out of David’s way and leave some sandwiches and caffeinated drinks at the door.

Xavi coughs, seeming to be mildly choking on his black coffee. “Sorry,” he says, after Iker pats his back and gives him a concerned look. “My coffee’s hotter than I thought. What do you mean ‘something’?”

“I don’t know.” Iker frowns. “I can’t put it into words, exactly, but sometimes I feel like things are…I don’t know how to say it, just kind of off. Something’s different.”

“In a bad way?”

“No, not in a bad way.” Iker hates how he can’t even explain what’s going on, how he doesn’t even _know_ what’s going on, just that something is definitely going on. “Just…different.”

Xavi blinks. He looks pretty stumped, and Iker can’t blame him, since he hasn’t exactly told Xavi anything concrete. Not because he wants to hide it (he trusts Xavi more than anyone else on this planet except maybe David), but because he feels as confounded as Xavi on this whole situation. On David.

“Is David doing something? Has he said anything strange?”

“Well, not exactly. He just…sometimes he looks at me in this weird way, like he wants something from me, except I don’t know what. Or sometimes we’re just joking around, but suddenly I feel like we’re getting serious about something and I don’t even know what it is.”

Xavi leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together, his eyebrows furrowing. Iker’s not sure if he likes that look.

“Iker, I’m going to tell you something that we’ve all known for a while now. And I mean we _all_ know, every single person.” He pauses, and then releases a sigh. “Except you and David, for some reason. I don’t understand how you two can be so clueless.”

Iker stares at him expectantly.

“David’s in love with you,” Xavi states bluntly, as surely and simply as someone would say ‘the sky is blue’.

“Okay,” Iker says slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?” A heartbeat. “WAIT WHAT?!”

Xavi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “God Iker, you two are usually pretty smart. I mean, he’s going to be a doctor, and you’re…well, Iker, and you’re usually good with this stuff. I don’t understand how the two of you can be so oblivious about something that’s so obvious.”

“David’s not in love with me,” Iker denies, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding wildly against his ribs, like a wild animal trying to find a way out. “How can he be…David’s not in love with me.”

“And you’re in love with him,” Xavi adds. “You’re in love with each other, and we all figured this out months ago, even _Cesc_ noticed, and somehow neither of you do.”

“But he can’t love me. He makes fun of me all the time.”

“He’s David; he makes fun of everyone all the time.” Xavi smiles, faintly, and Iker suddenly realizes that his own mouth has curved upward too – thinking about David is a source of smiles. “But yes, he does make fun of you more than other people. _Because he likes you._ ”

Iker shakes his head, more in confusion than refutation.

“I notice you’re not denying that you’re in love with him,” Xavi says.

Iker swallows, closes his eyes, sees an image of David on the backs of his eyelids, as crystal clear as if he was standing right in front of him. David’s smiling, not very bright or wide, but honest and true, lines fanning around his eyes and teeth flashing, enough to show that his front ones are just a little crooked. Somehow, on him, that’s endearing.

There’s no point in denying the truth, Iker thinks, his stomach dropping, and suddenly he realizes why those eggs tasted so off.

They tasted like disappointment.


	21. No Doubt, Just Faith [And Love] (Coentrão/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Cristiano’s free kick sweeps past a motionless Neuer, Fábio is on his feet, racing towards the pitch, and Cristiano is darting towards him, the two of them meeting in a tangle of arms and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for aeris444.

As soon as Cristiano’s free kick sweeps past a motionless Neuer, Fábio is on his feet, racing towards the pitch (actually, he started moving a second before the actual goal, because he knew, _he knew_ , that it was going in, that they wouldn’t be able to stop Cristiano, not one of the proclaimed best goalkeepers in the world, not the wall, and not the comfort of a 4-0 aggregate scoreline against the champions of Europe. There is little that can stop Cristiano, and there is little that Fábio thinks he can’t do), and Cristiano is darting towards him, the two of them meeting in a tangle of arms and smiles.

Fábio’s face ends up against Cristiano’s shoulder, and he can almost feel Cristiano’s smile, such is the brightness of it.

“Number sixteen,” he whispers against the juncture of Cristiano’s neck and shoulder, a place that he’s left marks, never as dark or lasting as he wanted to be, but nevertheless a place that’s just for him. “I knew you could do it.”

Cristiano pulls back a little; his smile has softened into something more private but just as brilliant. “Too bad there’s no time for number seventeen.”

“There will be,” Fábio tells him, as their teammates join in on the celebrations, flinging themselves on Cristiano, the group hug taking him closer towards the pitch, away from the sidelines, from Fábio. “There’s still the final.”

Cristiano’s away from him now; they’re not touching, and Fábio’s not part of the embrace anymore, but he can still feel a line of contact between them, stronger than what distance can pull apart.

Fábio wonders what number seventeen will be like: if it will be another free kick, or a straightforward shot, or a header, or even a penalty. He wonders if there will be an eighteen, or even a nineteen.

He doesn’t wonder if there will be a seventeen, only when and how. Out of the many, many things he feels towards Cristiano, doubt is not one of them.

Cristiano looks back at him and grins, mouths _seventeen will be for you_ , and Fábio smiles back, feels something warm light up his face and flare low in his stomach like a flame. He wonders if it’s faith, or love.

He has a feeling that it’s both.


	22. With You By My Side (Casillas/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker feels like Sergio has barely let go of him since the final whistle (or maybe it’s the other way around, maybe Iker’s the one who won’t let go of Sergio, or maybe they’re both holding onto each other with matched pressure and passion), but this time, unlike two years ago, Sergio’s tears only come when they’re alone.

Iker feels like Sergio has barely let go of him since the final whistle (or maybe it’s the other way around, maybe Iker’s the one who won’t let go of Sergio, or maybe they’re both holding onto each other with matched pressure and passion), but this time, unlike two years ago, Sergio’s tears only come when they’re alone. Well, alone and together, the way they’ve always been when it’s just the two of them, as if they’re in a third space, a world away from the world, a dimension of their own.

“Sorry,” Sergio says in a shaky voice. “I’m getting your shirt all wet again.”

“It’s alright.” Iker doesn’t mind Sergio getting tears on his shirt, not when they’re tears of joy. (He doesn’t _mind_ when they’re tears of sorrow either, but he hates seeing Sergio cry out of sadness, hates whatever hurt him badly enough to evoke tears.) “You know I don’t mind when you get emotional.”

“We made it, Iker,” Sergio says, his voice filled with wonder even now, two hours after the final whistle. “We made it to the final. _The final_.”

“We made it,” Iker echoes him, wonder slipping into his voice as well, even though he knew they could do it. He knew it, he knows what this team can do, but he still remembers all those years of crashing out at the semi-finals, he still remembers what happened the last time they faced Bayern, the sound of that final penalty finding its way into the net: a hollow swish of defeat.

“I scored.” Sergio sounds like a man waking up from a dream, unable to discern reality from fantasy. “Twice. I scored a brace. Away. In the semi-final.”

“You did.” Iker presses his forehead against Sergio’s, and then his lips. Sergio’s fingers slide into his hair as they kiss, the sweetness of the victory caught between them, holding them even closer. “You were so great, Sergio. So amazing.”

“So were you.” Sergio kisses him again, fingers caught in his shirt, grazing the damp spots from his tears. “Two clean sheets, Iker. Against the champions too. The favourites.”

“The old favourites,” Iker corrects. “The old champions.”

“I wonder who the new favourites are,” Sergio muses with a smile. “Who the new champions will be.”

“Do you have any guesses?”

“Well, there’s this pretty awesome team called Real Madrid…”

“Oh yeah?”

Sergio’s grin almost looks too wide for his face, stretching from ear to ear. “Yeah, they’re the new bandwagon team now, the only team in contention for the treble. And,” he adds in a tone of supreme importance, “their captain is totally hot.”

Iker laughs. “Which one?”

“Well, both of them.” Sergio’s grin turns playful, crooked. “But my favourite is the balding one who looks like he’s never seen the sun.”

Iker’s heard so many jabs at his hairline that it almost doesn’t affect him. Almost. “That doesn’t sound very attractive.”

“Oh believe me,” Sergio murmurs, “he is _very_ attractive.” His mouth finds Iker’s again, and he kisses him like he wants to consume him, wants to know him inside out and keep him for himself. Iker wants that too. “I can’t wait to see him lift the trophy.”

“With you?”

“With me,” Sergio confirms, his smile as bright as a comet, except Iker knows he’ll be able to see it again and again. He hopes that he’ll be able to see it on the 24th. He hopes that they’ll be able to lift that trophy. They’ve lifted so many trophies together, but never that one. Never that one.

“I want that too.” Iker doesn’t realize he’s reached out for Sergio until he sees his arms stretched out in front of him. Sergio moves into them without a word, and Iker folds them around him, holds onto him the way he grasps onto a goal-bound ball: firmly but carefully, reluctant to let go. “With you.”

Winning a trophy has always been better, more rewarding, more joyful, with Sergio by his side. There have been years of experiences between them, years of competitions and trophies, years of camaraderie and friendship and—something more.

Iker can only hope that there will be many more trophies and years ahead of them, and that he would face them together with Sergio.


	23. We'll Swallow the Stars (Alonso + Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know that,” Xabi says in a low voice. “That’s exactly it. We’ve been fighting for this for the past five years, and now we’ve finally made the final, and I can’t—I can’t even play. All because of a stupid tackle.” He puts his face over his hand. “A _stupid_ tackle. I don’t know how I was so careless.”

“Hey.” Cristiano shoves a bottle into Xabi’s hands. “Turn that frown upside down.”

“I’m smiling.”

“Not on the inside.”

Xabi looks at the beer Cristiano just handed him. “Is this your way of dealing with things now? Alcohol?”

“Somebody gave it to me, but you know I don’t drink.” Cristiano smiles. “Besides, you’re amusing when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not going to get drunk now. I only do that after I win a final.” Xabi’s jaw clenches. “And I won’t this year.”

“But _we_ can still win a final,” Cristiano says. “We can win _the_ final. Come on, we’ve been fighting for this for the past five years.”

“I know that,” Xabi says in a low voice. “That’s exactly it. We’ve been fighting for this for the past five years, and now we’ve finally made the final, and I can’t—I can’t even play. All because of a stupid tackle.” He puts his face over his hand. “A _stupid_ tackle. I don’t know how I was so careless.”

“These things happen,” Cristiano says gently. “Sometimes a card, or sometimes an injury.” He pauses, and Xabi knows he’s thinking about the Copa final he missed, how tense he had been on the sidelines, how utterly ecstatic when Gareth had scored that late, crucial, brilliant goal. But that was the Copa del Rey, not the Champions League, and Cristiano had scored the winning goal three years ago. It has been a lot longer than three years since Xabi has been in the Champions League final, and he doesn’t know how long it will be, after this one. He doesn’t know if there will be another one for him, after this one. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Xabi smiles a little. “At least it’s not you.”

Cristiano blinks. “What?”

“If it were you who couldn’t make the final, I think the team would suffer beyond belief.”

“Well, I _am_ awesome.”

“You are,” Xabi chuckles, “but I’m talking about the fit you would throw. I’m not sure we could escape that unscathed. There might be even more casualties before the final.”

“I wouldn’t throw a fit,” Cristiano says, sounding injured. “I’m a mature adult; I’m sure I could control my temper.”

“Mm hmm, I’m sure you can.”

“Okay, I would be upset,” Cristiano admits. “Like how you’re upset right now. But probably more dramatic.”

“Probably,” Xabi agrees.

“But we will suffer without you,” Cristiano says sincerely. “You’re our fulcrum, the heart of our midfield. We need you.”

The words warm him and hurt him at the same time. He knows Cristiano isn’t trying to compliment or flatter him, he’s just being honest, and it really does mean a lot that Cristiano thinks that of him, even though it’s nothing he doesn’t know already.

“Well, you won’t have me, and you’ll just have to make the best out of it.” Xabi tries to sound light-hearted, but he doesn’t think he does very well. “I’m not going to be around forever, anyway. They signed Illara for a reason.”

“He’s really good, but he’s not you,” Cristiano says offhandedly.

“And Bale is really good, but he’s not you.”

Cristiano’s smile makes him look like a boy, like the young man trailing out of his teens Xabi had faced in the Premier League, except Xabi hadn’t liked him back then, had thought he was arrogant and immature and egotistical like many others did and still do. He likes Cristiano now; he knows Cristiano now, and he likes him a lot. It would be hard not to.

“We’ll miss you,” Cristiano says, with earnestness that is both boyish and mature. “We’ll win this, Xabi, I promise. It would be better, of course, if you were there, but sadly the world isn’t a wish-granting factory.”

“Hmm, did you get that line from—”

“The fault, my dear Xabier, is not in ourselves, but in our stars.”

Xabi’s chuckle is half a snort. “Let’s hope our stars will be kind to us on Saturday.”

“Let’s hope,” Cristiano says solemnly. “We’ll be missing one of our brightest stars though.”

“Cris,” Xabi laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Cristiano,” Xabi says, more serious now. “Thank you.”

Cristiano smiles. “You’re welcome,” he repeats, his voice softer around the edges.

He wouldn’t be able to play in the final, and he still regrets that tackle immensely, he wishes he could go back in time and change it, he wishes he could play, but like Cristiano said, the world is not a wish-granting factory. He would have to deal with it and make the best of it, and he would do that with the composure and discipline that he didn’t have for that moment that cost him everything.

No, not everything. Because even if he doesn’t play in the final, if they win it ( _when_ they win it, a little traitorous voice of hope whispers in the back of his head), he would still win it, it would still be his team and his trophy.

And even if they don’t win, he would still be part of the best team in the world (in more than one sense).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wish-granting factory and fault...in our stars parts are from (what else?) _The Fault in Our Stars_ , by John Green. (Well, technically, the latter is adapted from Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_.)


	24. Sealed with a Kiss (Casillas/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker opens his eyes. There’s a look of peaceful contentment on Sergio’s face, so different from the bright elation he’s been exuding for hours. Iker loved his vibrant joy, and he loves this expression too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took...many hours. And here I thought I've regained my touch. I guess not. But it's okay, the boys are more than worth the time and effort. Should be more coming up! Probably tomorrow though. I think you guys can guess who I'll be writing about ;)

  

“Sergio.” Iker seems incapable of saying any other words right now. And that’s okay with him, and it must be okay with Sergio too, because he’s smiling. He’s been smiling the whole night, but this smile is different, not brighter but warmer, not wider but sweeter. This smile is for Iker and Iker alone. “Sergio. Sergio.”

“Iker.” Sergio presses even closer to him, tucks his head against the juncture of Iker’s neck, where his pulse is racing, maybe from adrenaline, or how close Sergio is, or both. “Are you tired?”

As a matter of fact, he’s exhausted. One hundred and twenty minutes of football, followed by over eight hours (and counting) of celebration, will do that to you. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t want to rest, and even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think he could. There’s something buzzing beneath the surface of his skin, fizzling like the champagne that they were all spraying everywhere, or a live wire, crackling and lighting him up from inside out.

When Sergio smiles at him again, he feels that something once more, alive and alight. “Hmm.” Iker closes his eyes, turns his face so that his cheek is pressed against Sergio’s hair. “I think we’re all tired.”

He can’t see, but he knows that Sergio’s grinning. “Not up to cartwheels anymore?”

Iker chuckles. “I don’t know where those came from, to be honest.”

“Well, wherever they came from, feel free to let them come again. That was great.”

Iker opens his eyes. There’s a look of peaceful contentment on Sergio’s face, so different from the bright elation he’s been exuding for hours. Iker loved his vibrant joy, and he loves this expression too.

“Yeah?” Iker smiles. “Should I start a tradition, like you and your cape, matador?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Sergio raises his head a little so he can brush his lips against Iker’s cheek. “Cartwheel away when we win the Undécima.”

“Hopefully it won’t take another twelve years,” Iker jokes. It’s surprisingly easy to joke about it, something that wouldn’t have been possible just a day ago.

“Hopefully,” Sergio echoes.

Hope isn’t something that has been kind to them in recent years, but today their hope, their faith, their passion, their desire paid off. Today they weren’t let down by their hope, and they repaid their fan’s hopes. Today, after twelve long years of waiting.

“Who knows,” Sergio says, “maybe it’ll only take twelve months.”

“That’s a bit too much even to hope for.” Even in the lingering delight of their victory, Iker can’t conjure up that much optimism. “Sergio,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Sergio looks confused. “For what?”

“For the goal. For saving us.” For saving _me_.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sergio says. “It’s my job, you know.”

“To score? I didn’t realize that’s what defenders do.”

“It’s what this defender does.” Iker chuckles, and the sound is heavy and light at once with warmth. “No, I mean – I’m the vice-captain, you know, I’m your right-hand man. It’s my job to pick up where you leave off. This is _our_ team, you know. Ours. And this is our trophy, ours to lift up for a reason.”

Iker looks at Sergio, and it strikes him yet again, how much he loves him, how grateful he is for him. Sergio could be rash, hot-tempered, infuriatingly stubborn, but it’s because he has so much heart and so much fire, too much to contain at times. But Iker can’t fault him for caring too much, for loving too deeply, and that’s how he feels for Madrid, that’s how they both feel.

And that just makes Iker love him even more.

“It was a stupid mistake,” Iker says quietly. “It almost cost us everything.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Iker. You’re not actually a saint; you’re allowed to make them too.” Sergio lets his head fall against Iker’s shoulder, like he can no longer hold up his own weight, and he trusts Iker to. “And it’s okay; we won, right? That’s the important thing – that we won.”

“We won because you scored.” Iker puts his arm around Sergio and holds him tightly. Sergio smells like champagne and grass and just a hint of sweat, a scent that Iker will forever associate with victory. “Bale’s goal was the winning one, but yours…yours was the one that really brought us the Décima.”

Sergio just smiles, and moves even closer to Iker, like he wants to tuck himself away into him. “Iker,” he whispers.

“Yes?” Iker asks, just as quietly.

“Nothing. I just wanted to say your name.”

Iker doesn’t say anything. Some things are beyond words. He holds Sergio, the two of them breathing in unison, hearts beating the same rhythm, and he thinks about how he felt when Sergio scored that last-gap equalizer, how he had showered Sergio with kisses, barely able to restrain himself from kissing him on the lips, how the trophy was heavier than he expected, but then Sergio reached out and raised it with him, and the weight became comfortable, familiar.

When he passed the trophy on to his teammates, he was reluctant to let it go, and his arms had felt empty, but then Sergio pressed against him, and he had something precious in his arms again.

“And my goal brought me kisses from you,” Sergio adds, “so it was doubly worth it.”

Iker laughs. “What, my kisses are worth as much as the Champions League now?”

“You’re worth a lot more than ten Champions Leagues,” Sergio says seriously.

Iker’s throat closes up momentarily, and then he finds his voice again, but not his breath. Sergio takes many things away from him, but he gives back so much more, and Iker can’t believe it sometimes, that he has so much, that he has Sergio.

“I love you,” he says, something that he doesn’t say nearly enough, but he has to say it tonight. Most of Madrid is filled with love for Sergio tonight, but no one as much as him, and it’s not just about the goal, or the Décima, it’s because this is _Sergio_ , and Iker’s so lucky to have him, so happy to be with him, and he doesn’t know how to tell Sergio that so these three words will have to do for now. “I love you so much.”

“And here I thought you weren’t drunk.” Sergio grins, and then at Iker’s expression, his grin softens into a smile. Into _that_ smile. “I love you too.”

“And I’m not just saying that because—you know.”

“I know,” Sergio says. “I know you, Iker.” He smiles again, cups Iker’s face and litters kisses along his cheek and jaw, not coming close to his mouth. The way Iker had kissed him at the final whistle, with utter gratefulness and appreciation. “I know you would’ve said it even if we lost. But thank God we didn’t lose.” His eyes darken a little. “I have my own mistake to make up for, you know.”

Iker remembers Sergio’s tears after Bayern, how he had been utterly inconsolable, and how they had sat in the dark for hours, with Iker just holding him until he fell asleep, tears still sliding down his face. And a year later, against Dortmund, how Sergio had broken down against his shoulder, wracked with the force of his guilt, and Iker had managed to find a reserve of strength somehow, to hold both of them together.

This time, Iker was the one who cried first, and Sergio was the one who held him. This time, the tears were from joy, and as they cried, it wasn’t emptying but filling. Filling with joy, with pride, with accomplishment. With hopes finally realized and dreams finally fulfilled.

He never wants to see Sergio cry like that night against Bayern, or against Dortmund, again. He knows that’s impossible; there will always be losses, and some of them especially painful, but he still wishes that he could shelter Sergio from the pain of them somehow. Sergio’s job is defending, and Iker’s is defending him. That’s the way it’s always been between them.

“Sorry about crying on you all the time,” Sergio says, and Iker realizes that he spoke out loud.

“Don’t apologize. You know I don’t mind. I just—I hate it when you’re sad.”

“Then stay with me,” Sergio blurts out. He bites his lip, glancing away for a second. “I mean—losses are bad, of course, they’re always going to be, but.” His eyes return to Iker, clear and steady. “They would be a lot worse if you weren’t with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Iker tells him, holding his gaze. “I’m not leaving.”

The look of relief on Sergio’s face is heart-wrenching. “Why would you think,” Iker starts, and then he remembers the rumours concerning his future that have been flying around, and his face softens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats. “Believe me, Sergio, I’m not.”

“I believe you,” Sergio says, faith resounding in his voice. He has always had faith in Iker, even when Iker himself lacked it, and Iker’s reminded again of why he loves Sergio so much. “I just needed to hear it from you.”

“I’ll be with you,” Iker says. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Sergio’s smile makes his whole face crumple, makes him look like a boy again, the boy who had come from Sevilla as a teenager and matured into this incredible man in front of him. An incredible player, an incredible captain, and above all, an incredible man. Iker’s incredible Sergio.

“Iker,” Sergio starts, and stops there, finishing the sentence with his eyes. Some things are beyond words. Then he lurches forward like a wave, and they’ve kissed countless times before, but something in this one is still special and incomparable. A first with no last in sight.

“I know,” Iker says.

Sergio nods. They meet each other’s eyes, falling and rising, drowning and breathing, and Iker feels that sense of peaceful contentment too, one of the many kinds of happiness that Sergio brings him.

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Sergio says, with a faint laugh. “Aren’t you tired of being my human tissue by now?”

“I don’t mind. You can use me as your human tissue any time you want.”

“It’s a deal,” Sergio says, smiling, his eyes bright, and they seal it with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more Seriker kisses! Because we definitely can't have enough of those xxx


	25. Beyond a Dream (Bale/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come with me,” Cristiano tells him, taking his arm and leading him past their teammates. Gareth has no idea where he’s going, but he follows Cristiano without a word. He would follow Cristiano to the gates of hell, although on a night like this the idea of hell doesn’t seem to exist, only heaven, which surely can’t be far from the dream that they’re living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be more critical and talk about Gareth's transfer fee being finally justified (debatably), and Cristiano's not 100% match, but...it just degenerated into fluff, basically. Oh well, the boys deserve fluff without angst.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://snchaoyan.lofter.com/post/25889a_18156de) by snchaoyan. Thank you for your time and effort!

Gareth thinks he might have had a little too much to drink, but he takes one look at Luka, who seems to be a step or two away from falling off the bus, and then at Xabi, who reaches out to steady Luka and ends up tumbling into Sami, and Gareth feels a lot better about his state of intoxication.

“Hey, Gareth,” a quiet voice says into his ear, and he almost jumps. He turns and is treated to the sight of Cristiano’s smile, a different kind of smile from his exuberant ones on the pitch, and he feels his heart hammer against his ribs, a different kind of lurch.

“Hey,” Gareth returns, equally as quietly, and even though they’re surrounded by cheers and noise and movement, somehow he feels like the two of them are off in their own little corner, a world made just of them, just for them.

“Come with me,” Cristiano tells him, taking his arm and leading him past their teammates. Gareth has no idea where he’s going, but he follows Cristiano without a word. He would follow Cristiano to the gates of hell, although on a night like this the idea of hell doesn’t seem to exist, only heaven, which surely can’t be far from the dream that they’re living.

They end up actually in the bus instead of parading on top of it. The bus is designed so that the driver is far from the seats, out of eyeshot and earshot, and so for the first time that night, they’re finally alone. It should be almost impossible to ignore the screaming and cheering all around them, but Gareth barely hears it, all his attention focused on Cristiano.

Cristiano smiles. “You’re really drunk, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am,” Gareth admits. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your eyes are a little glazed over.”

 _Maybe that’s because I’m looking at you._ Gareth clears his throat; his face is warm, it has been warm all night and has gotten warmer with each beer, but as Cristiano leans closer to him and looks at him from underneath his lashes, he feel like he might burst apart from the heat building inside him.

“You’re not drunk at all.”

“I don’t drink,” Cristiano says absently. “You know that.” He smiles again, a little crooked this time. “But I feel pretty drunk anyway. Victory is something you can get drunk on.”

“Cheers to that,” Gareth says, and then he realizes he doesn’t have a beer with him, but Cristiano laughs and holds up his hand like he’s raising a glass, and they share an invisible toast.

Gareth feels the adrenaline that has been fuelling him in the past several hours starting to slip out of his system. His eyelids are heavy, and he’s warm and content and close to drifting off. The bus is dark and cozy, and Cristiano is next to him, a warm, comforting presence, and Gareth feels like he’s dreaming already, even though he’s still awake.

“Cris,” he says softly. “I’m so happy.”

Cristiano’s eyes are like the scenery outside, dark and flickering with lights. “I am too,” he says, and puts his arm around Gareth, pulling him even closer, so that it feels like they’re breathing the same air, hearts beating the same rhythm. “And you scored the game-winning goal.”

“Ángel did all the work,” Gareth says modestly, but he can’t help his grin. “I just – it was like a dream already, to play in a Champions League final. But to score in one? That’s beyond a dream.”

“Beyond a dream,” Cristiano echoes, “that’s a great way to put it.”

He closes the final tiny bit of distance between them, his lips slanting over Gareth’s, their bodies pressing together from shoulder to hip. Cristiano tastes like victory, and kisses like a fantasy, although he’s definitely real and right there, and Gareth feels—

Beyond a dream.


	26. You Over a Million (Ronaldo/Coentrão)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fábio nudges Cristiano over so he can splash some water on his face too. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright, and Cristiano wonders how much of that is due to the Décima and how much to alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this didn't really turn out the way I wanted, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. I wanted to write another one with Xabi, but given how these two already took a billion hours to write, I don't see it happening. We'll see.

Cristiano ducks into the tiny airplane bathroom to splash some water on his face – unlike his teammates, he’s dead sober and only running on adrenaline – and someone follows him in and locks the door behind them.

“I really do need to use the bathroom, you know,” Cristiano says.

Fábio raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Oh, and here I thought this was the meeting place for the mile-high club.”

“It could be.” Cristiano turns on the tap; the water isn’t cold enough for his liking, but it’s still nice against his skin. He runs his wet fingers through his hair, trying to get some of the champagne out of it, but he knows he’s fighting a losing battle and gives up. “I don’t think either of us has enough energy for that right now though.”

“You’re right about that.” Fábio nudges Cristiano over so he can splash some water on his face too. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright, and Cristiano wonders how much of that is due to the Décima and how much to alcohol. “I wasn’t serious about the mile-high club thing, you know.”

“I know,” Cristiano says easily. “Besides, we’re part of that club already anyway; one missed meeting today won’t get our memberships revoked.”

Fábio laughs and tips his face up, inviting a kiss. Cristiano doesn’t deny him. It starts off quite chaste and gentle, and there’s no telling what it could have turned into if the plane didn’t suddenly sway and startle them apart.

“Turbulence,” Fábio says breathlessly.

Cristiano nods, leaning back against the sink, the edge of it digging into his hip. It’s a mild discomfort, one he’ll take gladly while Fábio’s looking at him like that, like he wants to devour him whole but also save him for later.

“I’m tired,” Cristiano says ruefully.

“You should be,” Fábio says sympathetically. “You’ve been running around for a hundred and twenty minutes. And getting run into.”

“So, the story of my life,” Cristiano says with a wry smile.

Fábio doesn’t smile back. Instead, his eyebrows draw together and he puts his hand on Cristiano’s thigh. “Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“Your hamstring. Does it hurt?”

“Not right now, no.” Cristiano puts his hand on top of Fábio’s, not squeezing or lacing their fingers together, just…there. “Nothing hurts right now.”

“Yeah?” Fábio smiles now. “That’s good to hear.” He kisses Cristiano again, a quick, light press of his lips. “I thought – I was worried that—”

“—I’d be upset because I only scored a penalty?”

Fábio looks relieved and concerned and sheepish all at once. “You knew I was thinking about that?”

“I was thinking about it, and you’re always great at getting me, so…” Cristiano shrugs. “I knew you’d know.”

“And you’re not upset?” Fábio ventures.

“Not so much anymore,” Cristiano says honestly. “It’s hard to be upset when everyone’s jumping around singing and dancing and spraying champagne at you.” He breaks into a smile. “And it’s hard to be upset when you’ve just achieved a dream you’ve been working towards for so many years.”

“I’m glad,” Fábio says softly, “that you’re not upset.”

Cristiano’s smile turns a little wry. “I’m such a downer, aren’t I?”

“What?”

“I mean, we just won La Décima, and you should be partying it up with the rest of the guys, but you’re here instead worrying over me.”

Fábio just smiles. “I’d rather worry over you than celebrate with a million other people.”

Cristiano swallows. “Fábio—”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Fábio says. “I wish you wouldn’t keep piling these ridiculously high expectations on yourself.” His expression softens. “But if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t be Cristiano Ronaldo, would you?”

Cristiano doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just pulls Fábio into his arms and hopes that he can say with his touch what he can’t with words. Fábio smells like champagne and grass and musk, with the slightest hint of his cologne lingering underneath. It’s an intoxicating scent, one that Cristiano can get drunk on, and unlike with alcohol, he’ll let himself.

“I’m not Cristiano Ronaldo right now,” he tells Fábio, holding him close. “I’m just Cristiano.”

“Hi, just Cristiano,” Fábio says with a smile. “Do you want to keep celebrating with me now?”

“I’d rather celebrate with you than a million other people.”

Fábio opens the door, and Cristiano takes his hand this time, and he doesn’t let go all the way back to their seats.


	27. No More Celebrations (Ramos + Torres)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people cry openly after losses. Some people try to shield their faces and hide their tears. Some people are so calm, so collected, so unaffected that it doesn’t seem like they lost anything at all, and yet it is often these people who break down the hardest, who are the hardest to piece back together.
> 
> Sergio isn’t sure what category he falls into; he just knows that his eyes are burning and his throat is tight and his chest is congested, but he can’t cry. He must have a flood of tears inside, waiting to be unleashed, but the dam is somehow still holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so done with catharsis fics, and I didn't think that I would need to write one so soon, but life has a way of surprising you, doesn't it? Don't you just love life.

Some people cry openly after losses. Some people try to shield their faces and hide their tears. Some people are so calm, so collected, so unaffected that it doesn’t seem like they lost anything at all, and yet it is often these people who break down the hardest, who are the hardest to piece back together.

Sergio isn’t sure what category he falls into; he just knows that his eyes are burning and his throat is tight and his chest is congested, but he can’t cry. He must have a flood of tears inside, waiting to be unleashed, but the dam is somehow still holding.

There are enough tears all around, anyway. Sergio feels almost a little removed from it all as he looks at his crying teammates, the men who he won this very tournament with only four years ago, who he won three tournaments in a row with, conquered the world with.

Some are silent and still, like Silva, tears trickling down his face; others are almost inconsolable, like Piqué, who Cesc is hugging tightly, somehow looking bigger than Piqué.

The person that Sergio’s worried about the most is nowhere to be seen. He suddenly has a terrifying vision of Iker breaking down somewhere, bearing the weight of his guilt and pain alone.

 _I have to find him_ , he thinks, _I have to find Iker_.

Someone touches his shoulder. “Xavi’s with him right now,” the person he’s worried about the second most says in a comforting voice, as if he’s reading Sergio’s mind. “You know how they get each other. Iker will be okay.”

“I get Iker too.”

“What is this, a friendship competition now?”

“Fer,” Sergio breathes, and his voice cracks. “How can you still joke around after that?”

Fernando’s face is calm and composed, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. Sergio remembers him wiping away tears after the final whistle, one of the only times he’s seen Fernando cry on the pitch. The sight made his eyes burn even more, but still he didn’t cry. He hasn’t shed a single tear since the loss. He wishes he could.

“Maybe it’s because we’ve turned into one big joke,” Fernando muses in a calm, composed voice. An empty voice. “We didn’t even make it past the group stages. The _group stages_. Four years ago, we won this tournament, and now—”

“Don’t,” Sergio says in a choked voice. “Don’t say it.”

“Okay, I won’t.” An edge of emotion enters Fernando’s voice; a hard, bitter edge. “I don’t need to say it anyway. We all know it.”

Sergio shakes his head, not as a denial, but just because he needs to do something, he needs to move his body even though a part of him just wants to sink onto the floor and stay there for a long, long time.

Fernando looks at him with clear, sharp eyes. Any trace of tears in them has completely disappeared by now.

“You didn’t cry,” he notes in an absent, detached voice.

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not healthy, you know.”

“Yeah, because you’re the expert on healthy behaviour,” Sergio retorts, and immediately regrets it. What’s the point of snapping at anyone now? He shouldn’t do that, especially not to Fernando, who’s one of his best friends, who’s only trying to help him. In a time like this, they especially have to be united, not divided. It’s easy to be united after a win, but it’s after a loss when a team shows its true colours. When people show their true colours.

Fernando’s face tightens. Sergio wonders if he’s going to explode, and he thinks that maybe it would be better if he does. Then Sergio could get angry too, and then they could yell at each other, and say horrible things, and maybe it would go to blows, and maybe they could bleed their pain out that way.

“You can cry,” Fernando says, and his voice is gentle, so gentle, and it hurts worse than if he’s yelling. “Don’t hold everything in. It’s okay to cry.”

Sergio swallows. He hasn’t eaten or drank anything, so it doesn’t explain the biting, bitter taste in his mouth, like metal, like blood.

“I want to,” he admits, in a hoarse, raw voice. “I want to, but I can’t.”

Fernando’s eyebrows draw together, and his forehead furrows. He’s always been pale, but now his face is almost bloodless, his eyes looking huge and black, sucking in light and giving off bleakness. Sergio imagines he must look similar. They must all look similar right now.

“Sergio,” Fernando says, very quietly, the only word he speaks. Then he holds out his arms, like he just scored a goal and he wants to celebrate with Sergio, except it couldn’t have been more opposite. There’s nothing to celebrate now. There might not be anything to celebrate for a long, long time.

Sergio almost stumbles as he lurches forward, almost trips over his own feet, as if he’s lost the last bit of control he had over them, and then he’s in Fernando’s arms, and Fernando’s holding him, hand stroking over his back and shoulders in soothing, senseless patterns, and he hears someone crying: broken, desolate, almost childish crying.

It takes him a while to realize that it’s coming from him.

“S-sorry.” He hiccups, realizing that he’s getting tears and snot all over Fernando’s shirt.

“You don’t need to apologize.” Sergio looks at Fernando, and realizes that he’s crying too. Or rather, he has tears in his eyes, tears that aren’t spilling over. Does that count as crying? “There’s no need to—” Fernando exhales, the breath catching and then breaking off in his throat. “You can cry. We can all cry.”

“You can cry too, you know.”

“I’ve cried enough.” Fernando wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, squares his shoulders. “It’s the only thing I can do, apparently.”

And there it is.

“Are we going to start the blaming party?” Sergio tries to smile, but his facial muscles refuse to cooperate. “I volunteer to be the piñata.”

Fernando gives him a long look. Then he gives a bland, humourless smile and shrugs. “Okay, let’s save the partying for later.”

Sergio laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical and scrapes his throat coming out, but at least it comes out. He clears his throat. “I need to talk to Iker.”

“Of course,” Fernando says gravely. “You should.”

“Fer…thanks.”

Fernando smiles a little, and it’s faint, barely there, but at least it’s there. “We’ve been friends for over ten years, and you still need to thank me?”

“I don’t need to, but I want to.” Sergio knocks his shoulder against Fernando’s. “So – thanks.”

Fernando just nods, his eyes looking even bigger and darker. Sometimes Sergio forgets that Fernando’s older than him, looks at him and is overwhelmed by an urge to protect him. But he’s not a good defender, is he? He’s failed in regards to his country, and now he’s failing in regards to his friends. He’s just a failure.

Fernando pulls him into another hug, and Sergio puts his arms around him, lets his head fall against Fernando’s shoulder and breathes, just breathes.

“Fernando,” he whispers, and Fernando whispers back, “I know. Me too,” and it hurts, he hurts, but they’re hurting together, and somehow that makes it, makes him, hurt a little less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of writing more, with Iker, maybe Villa(/Silva), but...I don't know, I don't know if I have it in me to write more.


	28. Brittle Pillar, Strong Heart (Ronaldo/Casillas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all know what he’s like: Iker the fallible saint, the brittle pillar, the person who would tell them with conviction and strength that they did well in the locker room, and then break down in some quiet corner by himself. He lets them see him cry after a victory, but not after a loss. He comforts them without fail, but doesn’t let himself be comforted. That’s what Iker is: their captain, their leader, their martyr.
> 
> Suddenly, the door is pushed open and a person practically runs in, doubled over, breathing hard, his knee taped and his usually impeccably styled hair a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying something new - writing the story in an "outsider"'s perspective. It wasn't really my intention from the beginning, but it just turned out that way.
> 
> Also, as you guys all know, I love Cris and - that comes across very clearly. Just putting that out there.

Iker doesn’t know how he manages to return to his hotel room – he vaguely remembers Sergio holding him up, guiding him along; Xabi grabbing his things, taking his phone from his numb fingers; Xavi talking to him throughout, quiet, comforting words that he doesn’t really hear but soothe him somehow.

“I’ll stay with him,” Sergio offers, once Iker listlessly sits on his bed and stares out into the air, reliving the match, error by error, minute by minute, a match that doesn’t quite feel real even though he can still hear the final whistle echoing in his ears.

Xabi eyes Sergio’s splotchy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

Sergio says nothing, just looks at Iker, his eyes full of concern – no, stronger than concern: worry, on the verge of anxiety, along with pain and desperation and an indescribable, fathomless darkness. He looks like he wishes he could transfer some strength into Iker with the force of his eyes, some warmth, some comfort, just _something_.

Iker doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at any of them. Xabi isn’t sure he would see them even if he looks at them. He exchanges a helpless look with Xavi; they’ve never been close, per se, but they’re all united now by their worry over their friend.

They all know what he’s like: Iker the fallible saint, the brittle pillar, the person who would tell them with conviction and strength that they did well in the locker room, and then break down in some quiet corner by himself. He lets them see him cry after a victory, but not after a loss. He comforts them without fail, but doesn’t let himself be comforted. That’s what Iker is: their captain, their leader, their martyr.

Suddenly, the door is pushed open and a person practically runs in, doubled over, breathing hard, his knee taped and his usually impeccably styled hair a mess.

Iker looks up, breathes the first word he said since after his locker room speech, his voice hoarse as if he hasn’t spoken for a long time:

“Cristiano?”

Cristiano smiles tentatively, subtly puts his weight on his right leg, a movement that doesn’t elude Xabi.

“Hey, yeah, sorry I just – barged in.” His voice is light, casual, but the undernote of heavy concern in it is unmistakable. He doesn’t move towards Iker, but his eyes run over his face, his slumped shoulders and defeated posture, his gaze so intense it seems to transcend a touch, like he can do more with eye contact than physical contact.

“Cris,” Sergio starts, his voice choked up. He glances at Iker, and then back at Cristiano, his face bare and pained, his eyes full of implorations. Cristiano nods, his eyes dark, his jaw set, answering Sergio’s unsaid pleads.

Iker’s eyes are fixed on Cristiano, and they’re no longer so distant, so clouded, although there’s a trace of wondrous disbelief in them, like he can’t believe Cristiano is really here, just a few meters away from him.

Xavi clears his throat. “How did you get in here?” His voice isn’t friendly, exactly, but it’s not hostile either.

“Gerard let me in,” Cristiano replies, his eyes not leaving Iker. “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but.” He shrugs. “Sometimes rules need to be bent.”

“Cristiano,” Iker says again, his voice barely audible but seeming to ring in the room.

“Yes, Iker, I’m here.” Cristiano lurches forward, stumbling as he’s a few steps away from Iker’s bed. Iker grabs his arm to steady him, but Cristiano’s momentum is too great and he ends up slamming into Iker, knocking him over so he ends up sprawled over Iker on the bed.

Cristiano blinks, his lashes brushing against Iker’s cheek, they’re that close. “This is a very promising position,” he says, half a smile flitting across his face, and Iker doesn’t smile back, but his hand tightens on Cristiano’s bicep, his grip firm to the point of pain, and Xabi understands that their presence in the room is unnecessary.

“We should go,” he says to Sergio, who nods, the worry in his eyes easing a little. Xavi looks more wary, but then Cristiano straightens up and gives him a solemn nod, and he relents, following Sergio and Xabi to the door.

“Cristiano will take care of him,” Xabi says, because Cristiano is essentially the other side of the coin from Iker. Is he also not Portugal’s captain, their leader, their martyr? Cristiano and Iker are the most inconsolable, the most difficult, the most frustrating, and yet when they’re together, they just somehow…fit.

There is no one Xabi trusts more to take care of Iker right now.

Iker shifts his eyes to them; they’re not distant, and they’re not clouded, instead they’re sharp and clear with a bright stab of agony that is painful just to look at.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Xabi knows that he’s apologizing for many things, some of which he doesn’t have to be sorry for, most of which must be crushing him with guilt.

Sergio is the one who speaks first. “I am too. We all are.”

“I’ll take care of Iker,” Cristiano promises. “As for you guys, take care of yourself too. I’m here to talk, if you need me, although I know I’m terrible at talking.”

“Thanks,” Sergio says. “I’ll—keep that in mind.”

“I think we just all need some time right now,” Xabi says, his voice much calmer and steadier than he feels.

Cristiano nods slowly. “Time is the only treatment sometimes.”

“What?” Sergio laughs; bitter, cracking. “Time heals all wounds?”

“Not all of them,” Cristiano says quietly, “but it does dull the pain.”

Sergio looks at him for a long moment, and then he nods too. “Thanks, Cristiano,” he says, and heads toward the door.

“Any time.”

“Your knee,” Xabi says. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine.” Cristiano would have said that even if the pain was killing him, but this time Xabi believes him. “I know it’s hard to believe, but you will be too.”

“With time?”

“With time,” Cristiano echoes.

“You know, I never liked you,” Xavi suddenly speaks up. “And I didn’t understand why Iker does so much, but because he does, I tolerated you.”

“Tolerat _ed_ , as in past tense?”

“Now, I think I understand better.”

Cristiano gives a small smile. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, with such sincerity that he probably would’ve touched a statue. Xavi is harder to sway, but he softens a little.

“I’m trusting you with Iker,” Xavi says, very seriously. “I don’t expect to see him smiling tomorrow, but – I’m trusting you with him.”

“Don’t worry,” Cristiano replies, equally as seriously. “I’ll repay your trust.”

Xavi nods, and without another word, follows Sergio out the door. There have been a lot of nods in this room. Xabi feels like his head is too heavy, his neck too stiff, to nod.

“Talk to your wife, Xabi,” Cristiano says softly. “Your kids. They’ll want to hear from you.”

“I don’t have much to say.”

“Then listen to them. Because they’re hurting for you.”

“They don’t understand,” Xabi says roughly. “They don’t play football, they don’t—”

“We don’t just play football, we live it. And you’re right, because they don’t understand football, they don’t feel it and breathe it the way we do, but they understand love, and they understand pain. And they feel both, for you, because of you. You’re hurting, and so are they. The cause may be different, but the pain is the same.”

It takes Xabi a while to find his voice. “And you say you’re terrible at talking.”

“I’m not talking, I’m just—clearing my head.”

“Well, thank you for that.” Xabi doesn’t know what more to say other than that, so he just nods, the movement mechanical.

Cristiano laughs. “Xab, you look like a bobble head doll,” he says, and then, soft and sincere, “Any time.”

Cristiano is a great friend, Xabi thinks. Iker’s not the only one who’s lucky to have him.

“You’re still champions, you know,” Cristiano says. “The rise can only come after the fall.”

“Maybe we’ve fallen too far.”

“Then show the world that you’re capable of picking yourselves back up.”

“Where is this Cristiano after our losses?” Xabi can’t help but ask, meaning Real Madrid, of course, by ‘our’. Where is this confident, calm, optimistic Cristiano?

“This Cristiano has been beaten up by the other Cristiano.” It should be a joke, but it’s not funny. If anything, it’s painful.

“Well, I think this Cristiano is stronger, and I’d back him up in the next fight.”

“You’re a terrible gambler, Xabi,” Cristiano says, but then he smiles.

“I’d back him up too,” Iker says quietly, finally speaking up. His grip has loosened on Cristiano’s arm, although he keeps his hand there, like he’s worried Cristiano will disappear if he doesn’t hold onto him.

“Maybe you can join him in the fight,” Cristiano suggests.

“I don’t think I’d be of much help.”

“I trust you,” Cristiano says. “I’d want you on my team.”

Neither Cristiano nor Iker are really outwardly affectionate people, and they’re definitely professionals, definitely leaders who leave their personal lives off the pitch, but it didn’t take long for everyone to find out about them, because—

The way they’re looking at each other right now makes Xabi feel intrusive just by standing there.

“You deserve better than me on your team,” Iker whispers.

Someone else would’ve said ‘there’s no one better than you’, but Cristiano is not someone else.

“Maybe you think that, maybe you don’t deserve me, or I don’t deserve you, but – I want you. Okay, Iker? I want you.”

Iker doesn’t say anything to that, he just cups Cristiano’s face in his fingers, firm but gentle, pulls him closer and kisses him. Cristiano kisses back, and there is enough sunlight coming through the window to cast their shadows onto the bed, long and overlapping, two silhouettes joining into one.

Xabi leaves and closes the door quietly behind him. He leans against it for a moment, feeling a little lighter, a little looser, and then he walks away, to be with his wife and children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last line in the second-last paragraph is taken from this romance novel I read - I blame how mushy this is on all the romance novels I've been reading lately.


	29. The End of an Era (Villa/Casillas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Iker says slowly. “This is it, huh?”
> 
> “Yeah.” This is it, this is the last day in Brazil for them, and tomorrow they would be on a plane back to Spain. And this is it for him, especially, his last game. It’s been nine years, he tells himself, nine years and two major trophies and a respectable scoring record. A lot of people would kill for what he’s accomplished. It should be enough; he should be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-indulgent David fic. Oh that game against Australia broke me a little inside. You'll be sorely missed, Guaje ♥ Thank you so much for everything: nine years, fifty-nine goals, two tournaments of glory. We won't forget you.
> 
> There'll be more to come. I'm thinking David/Fernando and David/Silva (can't promise though).

David is wandering down the hallway, his head slightly down, letting his feet carry him aimlessly, when he bumps into someone. He looks up, startled, and breaks into a small smile when he sees that familiar face.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Iker returns. “Going somewhere?”

“No, just—walking.”

Iker nods, like he understands. David’s glad to see that Iker doesn’t look so worryingly pale anymore. Maybe the Brazilian sun has done him some good, although every minute out there hurts because time is ticking down for them, mercilessly and irrepressibly, each moment closer to the last.

“So,” Iker says slowly. “This is it, huh?”

“Yeah.” This is it, this is the last day in Brazil for them, and tomorrow they would be on a plane back to Spain. And this is it for him, especially, his last game. It’s been nine years, he tells himself, nine years and two major trophies and a respectable scoring record. A lot of people would kill for what he’s accomplished. It should be enough; he should be happy.

“You okay?” Iker asks, and his voice is concerned, his eyes gentle. Iker has always been a good captain and a better friend; David will miss him. They’ve never worn the same club colours, and in fact, they spent four years being bitter rivals, but they’ve always gotten along well.

“I don’t think any of us are okay right now,” David replies calmly. “Especially not you.”

“It’s been a great run,” Iker says quietly. “It should be enough.”

“But it’s not.”

“Hmm, football is not a world where past glory is enough.”

David couldn’t have put it better himself. They don’t say anything for a while, just stand there in the middle of the hallway, and look at each other, united by memories of past glory, and a friendship that has stayed strong through the years despite the odds, and the weary knowledge that the future is coming and sweeping them away and there’s nothing they can do about it.

“David,” Iker says, and there’s a quiet intensity in his voice, a look that darkens and brightens his eyes simultaneously.

“I’ll miss you,” David says offhandedly. “I’ll be going to Australia, and then America, so – I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“This doesn’t have to be your last game, you know.”

David smiles a little. “If my country needs me, I’ll always be there.”

“These years with you, it’s been a real privilege.”

“You too.”

Iker’s shoulders twitch, like he wants to hold out his arms but he isn’t sure about it, and David saves him the hesitation and steps forward. Iker pulls him into a tight hug, his arms firm, his cheek pressed against David’s hair. David can smell his aftershave; he hasn’t changed it in years, and somehow it’s reassuring.

“David,” Iker says again. David is pressed right up against him, and he can hear his heartbeat, steady but just a little faster than usual. He looks up, meets Iker’s eyes, and there’s the same look in them that was there after the long night of penalties against Italy six years ago, and a similar yet different night against Paraguay four years ago.

Two nights when they were overwhelmed by the thrill of adrenaline and the sweetness of victory, two nights that feel so long ago that he almost dismissed them as hallucinations, except now that Iker’s looking at him like that, saying his voice in that low, intimate voice, those two nights come back to him like they were just yesterday.

 _We shouldn’t_ , he thinks. _I don’t want to be just someone to help you forget._

“No,” Iker says, and David realizes that he spoke out loud. “I don’t want you to help me forget. I want you to help me remember.”

“That’s not much better, you know.” David hesitates. “Those days are gone, Iker. We’re not the best team in the world anymore.”

Iker doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand against David’s cheek, his touch heavy and solid, just the slightest bit possessive, like he doesn’t want another opportunity to slip through his fingers. His eyes are hooded, and David feels his breath quicken.

“You’re right,” Iker says. “Soon you’re going to be on the other side of the world, and I don’t – I don’t want things to end this way.”

“What way?” David’s mouth curls up a little. “You mean, me crying? Or saying an awkward goodbye in the middle of the hallway?” He says the last part pointedly; any of their teammates, or even worse, a member of the staff, could walk in on them at any moment.

“David.”

“Iker, what do you want from me?” David asks wearily. “I’m not David Villa the top tournament goal scorer anymore. And – I’m sorry if I’m being cruel – you’re not Iker Casillas the Golden Glove winner anymore either. I can’t bring back the old days of glory to you, and if chasing ghosts is what you want, then – I can indulge you, but I don’t think that’s healthy.”

David doesn’t know what kind of reaction to anticipate, but a smile is not one of them. Iker drops his hand, takes a step back from him.

“You’ve changed, David.” He says it like a compliment.

“I’ve gotten old; I guess a little maturity comes with the ride.”

“Not old, just old _er_ ,” Iker corrects. “And your temper really seems to have cooled.”

“You probably just think that because you’re with Ramos all the time.”

Iker’s smile widens. He has so many more lines around his eyes, David notices, lines that could be from sun, or smiling, or stress, or just age. David has a lot of them too. Four years is such a long time, isn’t it? For that matter, even one or two is. They’re not young anymore, they’re not even straddling the age between dropping off the prime and the start of the twilight years – they’ve crossed it.

“I don’t want things to end this way,” Iker repeats, his voice a little softer, a little sadder. “I want…”

David looks at him; searching, anticipating. He has never been good at saying no to Iker, and he doesn’t think he’ll start now.

“What do you want?” he asks quietly.

“David…” Iker reaches out for him, draws him close, and it’s not so much a hug as it is a search, a need, for contact, for a warm body close by, a friend who cares.

“Come on.” David brushes his lips against Iker’s jaw, stubble scraping against the beginning of a shadow. “Let’s go to your room.”

Iker blinks. “My room?”

“Or we could go to mine. But Pepe likes to barge in unannounced.”

“Mine, then,” Iker says, taking David’s wrist, and they walk down the hallway together, with a purpose this time, with the realization that the end of an era just means the start of a new one.


	30. Moments (Ronaldo-centric, Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mesut,” Sami says softly, reaching out his arm, wanting to touch Mesut, to stroke his cheek, to brush that wayward strand of hair from his eyes, to pull him close and hold him and shield him from the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rereading [some old favourites](http://sparksfly7.livejournal.com/25442.html) and - ugh, the feelings. I had too many to contain. It feels like an eternity since I've written footie fic, and I feel pretty rusty, but thankfully not as much as I thought. Then again, it's Cris.
> 
> Anyway, I'm not done with this yet, but I thought I might as well post what I have so far. There is, of course, a good chance I'll never write more than this, because I'm not very good at finishing what I start, but I figured sharing would encourage me to continue it.

One of his first toys was a football, albeit a hand-me-down from Hugo that was lopsided and covered with stains. (He still has it tucked away in his closet.) Some subjects in school interested him, but he skipped class to play football so many times that his teacher wasn’t very fond of him. (He didn’t want to sit in a classroom while listening to someone drone on and on about something he didn’t care about. He wanted to play. He wanted to score. That’s what he’s always wanted.) He was always better than the people he played with, even if they were older, bigger, have been playing longer. (He was good enough to make it somewhere; he knew that, they all knew that. But he didn’t just want to make it somewhere; he wanted to make it to the very top. He refused to settle for anything other than the very best.)

Everyone knows he has potential, but just potential isn’t enough. Just potential won’t get you anywhere, not out of the tiny room he shares with his brother, out of the house that barely keeps out the rain and the snow, out of the island that he loves but isn’t content to stay in for the rest of his life.

He has promise, he hears all the time. He has talent.

That’s not enough.

*

His science teacher asks him to stay behind in class one day. Science is his favourite class; he has always been fascinated about the way the world works, the miracles of life and thought and the unseen things that connected them all.

“Cristiano,” she says kindly. “I’ve seen you play at lunch and after school. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” He waits for the inevitable ‘but’.

It doesn’t come. Not yet, at least. She looks at him with gentle eyes. “You want to be a footballer, don’t you?”

He squares his shoulders. “I will be.” It’s not merely a question of want; it’s not really a question at all. It’s not just that he wants it; it’s that he needs it, not just for himself, but for his family. He does alright in school but that’s not where he belongs. He doesn’t belong in a classroom, or an office one day, he belongs on the pitch. He’ll score, and he’ll win, and he’ll make enough money so that his mother would never have to work again.

“I’m sure you’ll be a great one,” his teacher says with sincerity, “but when you’re in my class, I would like it if your focus was here as well, instead of out there.”

Science is his favourite subject, and she’s his favourite teacher, not just because she teaches science, but because she has never spoken to him like he was just a silly child with his head in the clouds (well, in the grass – on the pitch).

“I try,” Cristiano says honestly. “It’s just—hard for me sometimes. I want to be a good student, but.” He shrugs. He’s not very good at anything besides football, and he’s okay with that, because he’s not just _good_ at football.

“At least I know you’re trying.” She smiles. “But I know you can try harder than this.”

Effort has never been an issue with him. Not when it comes to football anyway. Sometimes, football is an incredible challenge to him, but most of the time it’s easy. He thinks, breathes and sleeps football. It’s everything else that makes his life hard.

If only his life was football. That would make everything easier.

*

At night he would stare up at the ceiling and dream while Hugo snored next to him. He would dream about playing in the league, the Champions League, the World Cup. He would dream about scoring.

He would dream about winning.

After he wakes up, he would grab a banana and a yogurt and be out the door with his football under his arm. Practically everyone dreams about being a footballer, but he won’t let this remain just a dream.

*

“Have another bowl, Cristiano.”

He nods, his mouth full, tipping his bowl forward. He’s small, even for his age, and he plays with older boys who never hesitate to knock him down. He won’t make it easy for them. He hasn’t gotten this far by making it easy for people to knock him down.

“Cristiano.” His mother looks at him with glimmering eyes, and he knows that the moisture isn’t from the onions she’s chopping. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of course I have to. It’s Sporting; it’s one of the biggest clubs in the country.”

“It’s all the way in Lisbon.”

“It’s Sporting,” he repeats. His mother doesn’t look any less worried. “Mom.” He swallows, his throat thick. He wants to go, knows he has to go, but that doesn’t mean he wants to leave his family, his home, his Madeira. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will be.” She puts her arms around him and squeezes him so tightly he can’t breathe for a moment. He doesn’t mind. “You’re my son; I know how strong you are.”

He blinks rapidly, fighting back the pressure at the backs of his eyes. He won’t cry. He’s twelve now, not a baby.

“It’s okay to cry, honey.” His mother steps back from him and gives him another helping of soup. A tear splashes down from her face and almost drops into his bowl. “Remember that, okay? It’s okay to cry.”

Cristiano nods, putting a spoonful of soup into his mouth so he doesn’t have to speak. It tastes like salt, like tears.

*

He just wants to play football. That’s why he came here. He didn’t expect the whole class to burst into laughter as soon as he answered during attendance. He didn’t expect to be continuously made fun of for the way he spoke the language he’s spoken his whole life. He didn’t expect to hopelessly mess up his laundry the first time he does it and spend all his pocket money on phone cards and cry himself to sleep because he’s twelve years old and on his own for the first time in his life and he just wants to play football, but he didn’t know it came with all of this.

He just wants to play football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, as well as some of the information (like being made fun of for his accent and calling home all the time and crying a lot), is from his autobiography, _Moments_.


	31. Unnecessary Changes (Bale/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano corners him one day after practice. “I’m serious, Gareth. I can’t take this anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before the win today (8-2 - I thought I was still dreaming when I got up and saw it). I feel as though I should have either made this crackier or more serious, but...oh well. At least I wrote something.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://snchaoyan.lofter.com/post/25889a_26a4bd8) by snchaoyan. Thank you for your time and effort!

Cristiano corners him one day after practice. “I’m serious, Gareth. I can’t take this anymore.”

Gareth stares at him. He knows that Cristiano has been unhappy about what happened to their team, especially on the back of two successive league defeats, but he didn’t expect Cristiano to have an outburst about it.

“Look,” Cristiano continues. “I know that sometimes you need a change, but when you have a good thing already, why ruin it by doing something different out of nowhere?”

The persistent rumours of Cristiano leaving, of him returning to Manchester, fill Gareth’s head like an icy fog. “I…I didn’t know you were so upset over this.”

Cristiano crosses his arms over his chest. “This is serious business. Of course I’m upset.”

“No, I know it’s serious, but…” Gareth’s mind is whirling as he tries to think of a way to phrase what he wants to say. “Please don’t go,” he blurts out. “I know you love United and you’re not happy with the way the president is doing things, but – don’t leave. You can’t. I need you. I mean, on the pitch! I need to play with you.”

Cristiano looks at him like he’s crazy. “What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere. Since when do you believe the tabloids?”

“Aren’t you…” Gareth is beyond confused. “Aren’t you talking about Ángel and Xabi and how you’re unhappy with what happened to the team?”

Cristiano’s eyebrows draw closer and closer together. “Where did you get that from?”

Gareth opens his mouth, and snaps it shut two seconds later. “I thought you… You don’t feel that way?”

“I didn’t want Ángel or Xabi to leave, especially Ángel, because I know he didn’t want to leave. I thought we were a team before a brand. I don’t understand the point of breaking apart a whole to create something we already have.”

Gareth watches him silently, watches the way his eyes darken and his lips press into a taut line. Cristiano is usually all smiles and playfulness, and Gareth rarely sees this side of him, although they’ve become quite close over the course of the season. (Not as close as he wants, in the way that he wants, but it’s more than he expected and he’ll happily take it.)

“But that’s the way it is,” Cristiano says, his tone somewhere between acceptance and resignation. “Real Madrid is an evolving empire. People come and go. That’s the way it is.”

“But you’re not—” Each word Gareth speaks feels like it scrapes his throat raw. “You’re not going, are you?”

“Of course not,” Cristiano replies. “Sure, the club has its problems, but it’s _my_ club. I love it here. Why would I leave?”

Gareth’s sigh of relief is so great he feels lighter after it. “Good,” is all he manages. “That’s good.”

Cristiano grins, bright and lopsided. “You need me, huh?”

“On the pitch,” Gareth says weakly.

Cristiano almost looks hurt. “Not anywhere else?”

 _I need you, period_ , Gareth thinks, but of course he can’t say that. Cristiano is going to think he’s just being a fanboy, when really, it’s not CR7 he’s crazy about, it’s Cristiano.

Cristiano, who comes to training the earliest and leaves the latest, who smiles with crinkled eyes and warmth that many people miss, who expects more of himself than anyone else ever would. Cristiano, who Gareth…

“Cris, I—” Gareth can ’t squeeze out another word. Maybe he doesn’t need to though, because Cristiano crowds him against the wall and slants his mouth over his. Gareth’s mind goes blank. He feels the soft pressure of Cristiano’s lips over his own, the coaxing prod of his tongue, and he opens his mouth to let Cristiano in. Maybe he’s dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamed of Cristiano, dreamed of this.

Cristiano pulls back from him and looks at him with a smile that looks straight out of a dream. “I have to say, I thought that you’d kiss better than this.”

“You…” Gareth’s dazed mind struggles to process his words. “You’ve thought about kissing me?”

Cristiano nods, his tongue flitting over his bottom lip, like he wants to hold on to their kiss. “I thought that you’d kiss me back though.”

Gareth surges against him, their noses bumping, their lips smashing together, and it’s almost painful but he’s kissing Cristiano, _he’s kissing Cristiano_ , and he barely registers the discomfort.

He only pulls away when he runs out of air, and he realizes that at some point during the kiss, Cristiano had tugged off his headband and thoroughly mussed his hair.

“That’s so much better,” Cristiano says with satisfaction.

“What?”

“I can’t stand this—travesty anymore.” Cristiano tosses Gareth’s headband away like the sight of it pains him. “When I see you in it, I just want to rip it off.”

Gareth stares at him. “This is what you meant when you said you couldn’t take it anymore? My hair?”

“It was a complete disaster,” Cristiano says solemnly.

Gareth doesn’t know whether to laugh or—or what. “Why didn’t you stop me when I was talking about transfers?”

“You were all cute, trying to get me to stay.” Cristiano grins, and Gareth feels like he might die of embarrassment. “I was waiting for you to get to the part where your world would shatter if I left.”

Gareth snorts. “What am I, a teenage girl?”

“I have that effect on people,” Cristiano says. “I bring out the teenage girl in them.”

Gareth snorts again and elbows him, which turns into playful wrestling, which turns into making out like horny teenagers.

“But really, Gareth,” Cristiano says very seriously. “The headband has to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an indulgent piece to address two issues that bother me:
> 
> 1) As Valdano put it: "Madrid kept looking for the formula when they had already found it."  
> 2) Bale's headband


	32. Right Here, With You (Ronaldo/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing hiding here by yourself?” Sergio murmurs, warm breath fanning over Cristiano’s neck, eliciting shivers from him that aren’t unpleasant in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written Cris with so many RM players, but never Sergio for some weird reason. Sergio saved us so many times during yesterday's match (as he's prone to doing), and I knew I had to write a fic with him. And Cris is--well, Cris, so it's no surprise i wrote a fic about him.

Cristiano turns on the tap to the coldest it will run and splashes some water onto his face. He still feels flushed, partly from the lingering pangs of exertion, mostly from the warm glow of victory, although as the icy spray settles over his face, he feels like it seeps beneath the surface of his skin and cools him. That is, until a pair of arms wraps around him and pulls him back against a hard chest.

“What are you doing hiding here by yourself?” Sergio murmurs, warm breath fanning over Cristiano’s neck, eliciting shivers from him that aren’t unpleasant in the slightest.

He lets his head fall back against Sergio’s shoulder. “I’m not hiding,” he mumbles, his voice coming out strangely sullen.

“What are you doing, then?” Sergio’s voice is laced with amusement, but underneath, Cristiano can hear a distinct note of concern.

Cristiano wets his lips and turns around so they can look at each other face to face. Sergio looks tired but vitalized at the same time, something bright in his eyes, something soft in the set of his face. Cristiano clutches a handful of his shirt to pull him closer and slants his mouth over Sergio’s. Sergio doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, pressing Cristiano against the sink, the small of his back knocking rather painfully against it. He makes an involuntary sound and Sergio pulls back slightly.

“Are you okay?”

“Better than okay,” Cristiano tells him, seeking his mouth again, but Sergio keeps the distance between them.

“Are you okay,” Sergio repeats, softer now.

Cristiano has to bite back a sigh. Why does Sergio want to talk when they could be putting their mouths to a much better use? He’s about to ask Sergio that, but then he catches sight of the concern etched in Sergio’s features and he stops short.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay? We won. And I scored,” he adds like an afterthought, although scoring is never an afterthought to him, it’s something he thinks about, focuses on, tries to do constantly.

“You did,” Sergio says, with a smile full of pride. Sergio looks at him like that all the time, like he’s amazing, like he’s worth so much, even if he didn’t score, even if he didn’t have a good game, even if he didn’t do anything special at all. It’s—it makes something warm flare in his stomach, something he couldn’t have put into words even if he tried.

Cristiano shrugs. “It was just a penalty though.”

“It was a good goal.” Sergio brushes a hand against the back of Cristiano’s neck, and Cristiano leans into his touch, pressing his face against Sergio’s shoulder. He wants to stay like this a little longer, but he can feel the weight of Sergio’s gaze on him and he raises his head.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sergio says with a shadow of a frown. Cristiano wants to kiss it off his face. “What were you doing here by yourself?”

“What, I’m not allowed to be alone for a minute?” Cristiano asks flippantly. “You sound like I need constant supervision.”

“Cris,” Sergio sighs. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I was hot, so I wanted to wash my face.”

Sergio smiles a little. “You’re still hot though.”

Cristiano rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirk up.

“I just—” Sergio’s voice is quieter now. “I was looking for you, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Well, you have now. I’m right here.” Sergio’s small smile returns, but it isn’t nearly wide enough for Cristiano’s liking, so he puts his fingers on Sergio’s mouth and lifts its corners up. Sergio scrunches up his eyebrows like he’s asking, _What are you doing_? Cristiano grins. “I like it when you’re smiling.” He moves his hand away, but Sergio’s smile remains.

“I like your smile too,” Sergio says offhandedly.

“Of course you do, I’m hot.”

Sergio laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth a bright flash of white against his tan skin. Cristiano sweeps his thumb across against Sergio’s bottom lip, wanting to hold on to his smile. “Sergio,” he says, quiet, just his name, and Sergio gives him _that look_ again. “You did really well. If it weren’t for you, who knows how many more goals they would’ve scored?”

“I think if they scored any more, Iker would have had an aneurysm.”

Cristiano chuckles. “You saved his life then.”

“I’m amazing like that,” Sergio says. Cristiano agrees, but he keeps it to himself – Sergio’s ego doesn’t need any more inflation. “Cris, the thing is—”

“I wanted to be alone for a bit,” Cristiano says, “but it’s not like… I’m not brooding or anything. I’m happy. We won, and I’m happy.”

“You should be.”

“I am,” Cristiano says honestly, his eyes fixed on Sergio’s. Sergio smiles.

“Hey, máquina, gitano!” Marcelo calls out. “Where are you two hiding? Get in here!”

Sergio’s smile turns lopsided. “Looks like your plans of being alone aren’t working out.”

“That’s alright. I’ve had enough of being alone.” Cristiano curls his fingers around Sergio’s wrist, the one without a tattoo, wishing that he could leave a lasting mark behind on Sergio. “I—” He isn’t sure what to say, so he settles for a smile. “I’m happy,” he repeats, and by that he means _I’m happy because we won, even if I didn’t play my best_ and _I’m happy to be here with you_.

“I am too,” Sergio says softly, pressing his smile against Cristiano’s mouth, sharing it with him. “Right here.”


	33. Such Is Life (Bale/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting on the edge of the bench, his head not bowed so much as weighed down, his half-open bag resting beside his calf, the contents threatening to spill out and scatter onto the floor.
> 
> “Hey.” A shadow falls over him, and a hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up; sees light, feels heavy. “Gareth?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first couple of paragraphs fresh on ~feelings~ and then I didn't touch this for two weeks so I kind of lost the mood. I'm not entirely happy about this, but I've been working on it for so long (which is really sad for a ~800 word ficlet) and it feels like something I needed to write, so--here it is.

Gareth doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting on the edge of the bench, his head not bowed so much as weighed down, his half-open bag resting beside his calf, the contents threatening to spill out and scatter onto the floor.

“Hey.” A shadow falls over him, and a hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up; sees light, feels heavy. “Gareth?”

He makes his lips curve upward; he isn’t sure if it passes as a smile. Judging by Cristiano’s frown, he doesn’t succeed. “Hey,” he replies, his voice scraping against his throat on its way out.

Cristiano takes a seat beside him, close enough for their thighs to touch. He looks fresh from the shower: hair wet and curling, droplets of water beading his lashes, shirt pulling tight across the muscles of his chest. Gareth is torn between drawing closer to him or pulling away from him. He gets like this after losses. Well, technically this game was a victory, but it feels very much like a loss. They won the battle but lost the war. And in the end, isn’t the war what matters?

“What are you thinking about?” Cristiano asks; gentle yet firm, curious yet knowing.

“Wars.”

“Wars,” Cristiano repeats.

“Mm hmm.” Gareth allows his head to flop against Cristiano’s shoulder. “Victory. Defeat.” He pauses. “More about defeat.”

Cristiano puts an arm around him, not quite comforting so much as tethering. “How philosophical,” he says, and Gareth really does smile this time.

“What about you?” He reluctantly lifts his head from Cristiano’s shoulder – he likes it there – and turns so their eyes meet. “What are you…” _What are you thinking? What are you feeling? What are you?_

“What am I?” Cristiano repeats with arched eyebrows. “Well, human, the last time I checked.”

Gareth rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

Cristiano shrugs, smiling a little. “Hey, you asked.”

“No, I mean…” Gareth trails off. “You know what I mean.”

Cristiano stares off into the distance for a moment, his eyes distant, clouded. Gareth wonders what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s remembering, like Gareth, this time last year, when they were champions of Europe. Maybe he’s imagining. Maybe he’s regretting.

“I’m okay,” Cristiano finally says. “I mean, this wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“Yeah, but…just because you were expecting something doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Cristiano nods and, unexpectedly, smiles. “You’re being very philosophical today.”

“And you’re being…” Gareth stumbles over what he wants to say, the words feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. “…surprisingly cheerful.”

“I’m working on it,” Cristiano says with a wry smile.

Gareth thinks about how Cristiano usually is after losses, how quiet he is, how withdrawn, how he likes to be alone. And he thinks about how Cristiano hasn’t really been like that lately, how he lets Gareth stay with him and sits with him with a movie on in the background or listens to him talk about everything and nothing and anything in between. Well, maybe the quiet part is still true, but it’s different to be quiet alone as opposed to quiet together. Gareth likes that, being together.

“Gaz?”

Gareth clears his throat, realizing he zoned out. “I wish you didn’t have to work on it. I wish—I wish this year could have been like last year.”

“Don’t we all.”

“It just…it really sucks,” he says lamely.

Cristiano makes a sound akin to a laugh, sharp around the edges, bitter in the centre. “That’s life for you,” he says, with the tone of someone who is not a stranger to defeat. It makes Gareth hurt for him.

He clears his throat, trying to think of something to say, something wise or funny or comforting, something to ease the darkness lurking in Cristiano’s eyes, but he comes up short so he reaches out and puts an arm around Cristiano’s shoulder. Cristiano leans into him almost imperceptibly, eyes slipping shut like he’s too tired to keep them open.

“It’s not so bad, sometimes,” Gareth says quietly. “Life.” Cristiano makes an acquiescent humming sound, warm and solid against Gareth. “I mean, if you’re spending it doing something that makes you happy. And with people who make you happy.”

Cristiano opens his eyes slowly, lashes dark and eyes bright. “You really do sound like quite the philosopher,” he says, and smiles.

“What can I say?” Gareth shrugs. “I’m a man of many talents.” It sounds like something Cristiano would say – it _is_ something that Cristiano has said – and Gareth fights to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.

“It’s a shame one of those talents isn’t maintaining a decent hairstyle,” Cristiano says, eyes twinkling.

Gareth rolls his eyes, but leans forward to meet Cristiano when he kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano really has called Gareth "Gaz" before. I find that cute.
> 
> I couldn't resist the jibe about Bale's hair. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with his decline in form.
> 
> Thinking about writing something semi-happy that takes place after the Getafe game, but happy has been hard for me to write lately, so I don't know.


	34. Without a Word (Bale/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth is running out of things to say when signing Cristiano's match balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this after an influx of feelings during the match today vs. Espanyol. It took a lot of restraint not to sneak a jab at Bale's hair in here.
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://sanee.lofter.com/post/3bb7e9_8287a15) by [winterbell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbell). Thank you for the time and effort!

Cristiano is absentmindedly fiddling with the match ball when Gareth approaches him in the locker room. The rest of the team has cleared out, and it’s just the two of them, alone and together.

“I think you’re going to need a new shelf,” Gareth says.

Cristiano’s brow furrows. “A new shelf?”

Gareth tips his head toward the ball. “Don’t you have a thousand of those by now?”

Cristiano’s mouth quirks up at the corners. “That’s a bit of an over-exaggeration. Maybe nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

Gareth laughs.

“Hey,” Cristiano says, like a thought suddenly occurred to him. “I noticed that you didn’t write much.”

“I didn’t what?” Gareth asks, confused. “Oh you mean, on the ball?”

“Yeah, all you wrote was, _Good job!_ You didn’t even sign it.” Cristiano’s halfway toward his trademark wounded puppy look, and Gareth knows it’s just an act, but the expression always makes him soften. This time is no exception.

“Okay, I’ve signed hundreds of these. I’ve run out of things to say by now.”

“Have you?” Cristiano’s almost-pout turns into a grin instantly. In response, Gareth’s almost-sigh turns into a chuckle. “And here I thought you liked me.”

Gareth makes sure to tamper down his smile. “Where’d you get that impression?”

“I don’t know…” Cristiano says slowly. “I mean, you seemed like you liked me plenty when you were in my bed last night.”

Gareth makes a vaguely choked sound. Cristiano just looks at him with bright, liquid eyes. He clears his throat. “Should I be writing you lines of poetry from now on?”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Cristiano turns the ball around in his hands. “I’m not sure how many you could fit on here though. I mean, you have to leave some space for the other guys.”

“Don’t I get a space reserved for me?”

Cristiano puts the ball down, his eyes sparkling. “Sure you do,” he says, pulling Gareth to him, “right here,” and kisses him.

Afterward, when they’re on the bus back to Madrid and night has fallen over the city like a dark veil, Gareth suddenly realizes something. He turns his head so he can whisper in Cristiano’s ear, even though he doesn’t need to since everyone is either asleep or occupied.

“You said I didn’t sign it.”

“Sign what?” Cristiano’s usually perfectly gelled hair is mussed on one side from being pressed against the headrest. Gareth finds it endearing. “The contract selling your soul to Real Madrid?”

Gareth smiles. “No, I’m pretty sure that was a clause in my contract.”

“You have to read the fine print.” Cristiano’s smiling, even though his mouth is stationary. He can do that, smile with just his eyes, a smile that always makes Gareth want to smile back.

He doesn’t bother repressing it this time. He freely smiles back, broad and fond, and Cristiano’s smile spreads to his mouth, his laugh lines, his entire face, an expression that both lights up and is lit up.

“What I meant though,” Gareth says, “is the match ball.”

“What about it?”

Gareth holds back a sigh. Sometimes he doesn’t know whether Cristiano is playing dumb or is actually dumb. “You said I didn’t sign it,” he repeats.

“You didn’t.”

“Then how’d you know which message was mine?”

Cristiano snorts. “Gaz, do you think I don’t know your writing by now?”

Gareth doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he doesn’t speak, just smiles, low and quiet. Cristiano smiles back and puts his hand on Gareth’s knee; he doesn’t squeeze, just touches, warm and solid.

They stay like that for the rest of the night, maintaining a line of contact that transcends the need for speech. Gareth says _I like you,_ and Cristiano says, _I know_ and _I like you too_ , all without saying a word.


	35. Not Quite (Ronaldo/Kaká)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello?” Ricardo’s voice is thick with sleep, but the cadence of it rolls over Cristiano like a song he hasn’t heard in too long, has only sung in his head, off-tune and worn with use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at 11 pm, which is now late for me (basically my old 2 am) so it's probably not the most coherent thing. 
> 
> It's been ten thousand years since I've written CrisKa, I swear. The difficulty it took to write this is testament to this. I've been reading a lot of footie fic the past two nights and it just left me feeling really nostalgic and wanting to write something for this fandom again. And what better pairing than my old OTP?

Cristiano isn’t sure what he’s doing as he slips his phone blindly from his pocket and dials a number he knows by heart. It’s too late to call, really – he’s not the greatest with math, but he knows the time difference between Orlando and Madrid means that that it’s 2 am over there – but he wants to do it before it becomes _too late_ to call, to reach out, to try.

“Hello?” Ricardo’s voice is thick with sleep, but the cadence of it rolls over Cristiano like a song he hasn’t heard in too long, has only sung in his head, off-tune and worn with use.

Cristiano swallows. “Hi.” He means to add something else – _how are you_ , _it’s been so long_ , _I miss you_ – but his voice dies on him.

“Who is this?” Cristiano wonders if – hopes – Ricardo is messing with him, but there is genuine confusion in his voice. He doesn’t recognize Cristiano’s voice. Or maybe he’s forgotten it. “Hello?”

Cristiano wets his lips and tries again. “Ricardo.”

“Cristiano?”

“Ricardo,” he repeats, a substitute for everything he doesn’t know how to say. “Hi.”

“Cristiano”—he’s always loved how Ricardo doesn’t shorten his name like everyone else. He doesn’t say _Cris_ like his friends in Madrid or _Ronnie_ like his friends in Manchester; he always says _Cristiano_ , full and sure—“it’s the middle of the night here.”

Ricardo doesn’t say it in a reprimanding or irritated way, exactly, but he doesn’t sound happy either. Of course he doesn’t. Who would be happy to be woken up at 2 am?

“I’m sorry,” Cristiano says, quietly, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear himself. “I know it’s late. I know I shouldn’t have called. I know—”

“Cristiano,” Ricardo interrupts him, gently. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Good. The team is good. The city is good. Everything is good.”

“What about you?”

“I’m.” Lonely. Lost. Longing. “Good.”

“Cristiano.” He hasn’t heard his full first name so many times in a conversation in a long, long time. “You can tell me if something’s wrong, you know. Or not necessarily wrong. You can tell me—whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me.”

“It’s 2 am over there.” Cristiano checks his watch. “2:05. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you already did, so let’s talk,” Ricardo says, still gentle. Cristiano hears the bed rustle and a faint click, like a lamp being turned on. He pictures Ricardo sitting up in bed, in the light now, listening to him, talking to him, thinking about him.

“Did you watch our match?” Cristiano blurts out. “On Tuesday.”

“Against Malmo? Where you scored eight goals?” He can almost see Ricardo’s smile. That’s the key word: almost.

“Well, I didn’t score all eight, but you can attribute them to me if you want.”

Ricardo laughs. “I meant you as in Real Madrid.”

Cristiano’s smile fades. He remembers when Real Madrid was _we_ instead of _you_ , when he and Ricardo were _you and me_ instead of _you, and me_.

“So?” Cristiano clears his throat. “Did you watch it?”

“I couldn’t catch the whole game,” Ricardo says regrettably, “but I watched the second half. It was a great match.”

“It was,” Cristiano says softly. “We needed a match like that.”

“Are you—” Ricardo hesitates. “Your form has been great lately.”

“Am I still beating myself up for my early season slump?” Cristiano translates. “No. I’m just focusing on working harder to make up for it.”

“I would hardly call two games without a goal a ‘slump.’”

“I would.”

“Cristiano.” Not quite a sigh, not quite not. “I see you’re still as hard on yourself as ever.”

“Did you expect me to change?”

“No.” Not quite a laugh, not quite not. “I still expect you to be you.”

“And what’s ‘me’?”

“Hmm, let’s see.”

Ricardo makes a muffled sound that Cristiano recognizes as him trying to stifle a yawn. He’d done that a lot around Cristiano, when they roomed together during away games and Cristiano wanted to stay up watching poorly subtitled foreign movies or go out for a moonlit walk, or when they sat together on the bus and Cristiano didn’t just want to stare outside the window or listen to music. Ricardo had always humoured him, indulged him, accompanied him. Ricardo had always been there for him, and even though it’s been more than a year since he left, Cristiano still can’t get used to it. Still catches himself watching for a glimpse of Ricardo’s dark hair, his soft smile. Still misses him.

“Infuriatingly stubborn. Incredibly demanding on yourself. Impossibly…” Ricardo breaks off. “Impossible sometimes.”

“How many adjectives do you know that start with ‘i,’ honestly?”

“Those were adverbs, not adjectives.”

“I love it when you talk all academic to me.”

Ricardo laughs again. “Cristiano,” he says, like a full sentence.

“Ricardo,” Cristiano returns. “Is that it? I just get two and a half descriptions?”

“Brave. Strong. Loyal.” Cristiano considers calling Ricardo out on abandoning his beloved _i_ adj—adverbs, but he stays quiet, on the tail of a held breath. “Funny, but not as funny as you think.”

“Hey!”

“Kind, kinder than you think. Beautiful, more than you think and more when you’re not trying.” Ricardo’s voice is getting softer, quieter, but Cristiano hears him more sharply, more acutely. “Impossible not to care about, when someone actually knows you.”

“What about you?” Cristiano’s voice comes out as a whisper because he can’t sustain anything more than that. “Do you care about me?” _Do you still? Do you love me? Do you still love me?_

“Are you really asking me that?” Ricardo says. “Do you really need me to answer you?”

“What if I did?”

“You’re the one who’s an exception, Cristiano. Who’s all those words that start with _in_ and _im_. I’m just—I’m—” Ricardo can’t hold back his yawn this time. “Excuse me, it’s late.”

“It is.” The clock is ticking. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m happy you called me. I haven’t heard your voice in too long.”

“I’ve only heard your voice in my head,” Cristiano says offhandedly, “and it doesn’t sound quite right there.”

Ricardo makes a sound that’s not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “You do realize that makes it sound like you have hallucinations of me.”

“That doesn’t sound too far from the truth. You’re too good for reality anyway.”

“Cristiano,” Ricardo says, soft, and then even softer, “I do.”


	36. Almost a Love Story (Torres/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Fernando and Sergio, from Madrid to Madrid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=863933#t863933): "The universe meant for us to be together, but we were more stubborn than them." Format inspired by [Hold On](http://dashelots.livejournal.com/8802.html).
> 
> I wrote the whole first part and the first paragraph of the third part in early January, and then I meant to come back to this right away and I...didn't. Until now! Fair warning: this is very depressing and pretty incoherent and it's not very complete or emotionally satisfying, it's just... Idk. Read at your own risk, basically. Apparently I can only write angsty as hell Sernando.
> 
> I originally posted this as its own story, but I thought it's short enough that it makes more sense to put it here.

It starts with two boys in Madrid.

Fernando Torres thinks Sergio Ramos talks too much and laughs too loudly and tackles too hard. Sergio loves things that don’t interest Fernando – bullfighting and tanning – or make him cringe – flamenco and, worst of all, Real Madrid. It feels like the only things they have in common are football and living in Madrid.

Somehow that starts to change when they’re called up for the youth team. They share a room, which is soon filled up with Sergio’s chatter and smiles and flailing hand gestures. Fernando finds him annoying, and then amusing, and then – he isn’t sure how this happens – captivating.

Fernando is a quiet person, always has been. He doesn’t like to talk a lot, preferring to listen, and maybe it’s perfect that Sergio never shuts up because there’s rarely a lull in their conversations. Not that Sergio just talks Fernando’s ear off – he makes Fernando talk too, he makes Fernando want to talk because of the things he says, the jokes he makes, the smiles he gives.

They don’t room together when they’re back in Madrid, but they see each other almost every day, and if they don’t, they text. Sergio’s texts are full of emoticons and jajaja, and Fernando’s precise punctuation starts to falter. There’s a wild freedom and careless joy to Sergio that is infectious. Fernando likes it. Fernando likes him.

When Sergio comes over, he often brings containers full of his mother’s cooking and bottles of beer they crack open against the dented edge of Fernando’s second-hand end table. They play video games on Fernando’s couch, their knees bumping against each other’s, their drinks wobbling precariously when Sergio leaps up to celebrate a victory. Sergio leaves the imprint of his feet on Fernando’s ottoman, the imprint of his drink on Fernando’s coffee table, the imprint of his presence on Fernando’s life.

Fernando catches his eyes lingering on Sergio’s lips, the strip of skin at his waist that shows when he stretches, the lines that crinkle around the corners of his eyes. He finds words congesting in the back of his throat, sticking to his tongue, catching on the edge of his teeth. He tells Sergio, “You should get a haircut,” when he means, “I want to touch your hair all the time and it’s driving me crazy.” He tells Sergio, “You always end up sleeping over, you might as well just move in,” when he means, “I want to fall asleep to you and wake up to you.” He tells Sergio, “I can’t believe we used to be awkward around each other,” when he means, “I don’t remember my life before you and I don’t want to.”

In the end, he never says any of these things, and that’s what costs him.

 

It starts to end with a boy forced to become a man in England and the other left behind in Spain.

Ever since Fernando was given the captain’s armband and the expectation to lead Atlético to glory, he’s felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier and heavier. Sometimes he feels like Atlas and he wonders when he’ll collapse from trying to hold up so much. He wishes he could, he wants nothing more than to repay the fans for their faith, but he can’t bear the weight of the world by himself.

(And – he can’t win trophies by himself. He wants to stay at Atlético, but he also wants to win, and those are not mutually inclusive. He wants to play for his boyhood club, but he won’t be a Niño forever. He wants…he wants, but he’s learned that you don’t always get what you want.)

He’ll miss the Caldéron. He’ll miss Atlético. He’ll miss Madrid. And not just because of football, but because of his city and his family and his friends and his—and Sergio. He’ll miss Sergio.

On the day before Fernando leaves, Sergio comes over with a six-pack like usual, but without a smile unlike usual. They stand in the middle of Fernando’s living room, surrounded by boxes and bags, staring at each other like they’re doing it for the last time.

Sergio has finally cut his hair; not that much, just enough so that it doesn’t hang into his eyes anymore. Fernando thinks about telling him that he likes it, that he likes being able to look into Sergio’s eyes, although he also likes tucking Sergio’s hair behind his ears for him, likes having an excuse to touch him. Fernando thinks about telling him that this doesn’t have to change everything, that it doesn’t have to change them. That Spain and England aren’t so far away, really, that the distance doesn’t mean they’ll be distant. Fernando thinks about telling him that he loves him.

Fernando thinks many things, but he doesn’t say any of them. He just looks at Sergio and drinks him in while he can and tries to stretch out this moment as long as he can without breaking it.

Sergio speaks, finally, and wishes him good luck. Tells him to take England by storm, tells him that he believes in him, tells him to come back one day.

Fernando says thanks. Fernando says he’ll play his best. Fernando says he’ll return eventually.

Fernando doesn’t say “I love you,” and he is left haunted by the ghost of what could have been.

 

It ends before it starts with two men in Madrid.

Fernando Torres thinks Sergio Ramos talks too much (not to him) and laughs too loudly (not because of him) and tackles too hard (not against him). Sergio loves things that have grown on Fernando – except Real Madrid, that will never change – but he no longer loves Fernando. Maybe he never did.

They both live in Madrid again, but the similarities end there. Sergio is a beloved son of the city, while Fernando feels like an orphan forever looking back while trying to move forward. Honest sources call him a failure looking to rediscover past glory, and he can’t disagree, except that glory isn’t the only thing of the past he hopes he can find again. Kinder sources call him the prodigal son returning home, but he is no longer sure if he can call Madrid home.

There are still national team call-ups, but Sergio shares a room with Iker now. Fernando usually rooms with Juan, and he likes Juan, he likes how Juan is quiet and organized, but there was something about Sergio’s volume and spontaneity. There was beauty in his chaos.

They live even closer now than they did in their youths, but Fernando couldn’t have felt like they were farther apart. Sometimes he starts to text Sergio, but he usually doesn’t know what to say so he just doesn’t say anything at all. Other times, he mostly manages to get his meaning across in the message. He doesn’t send those.

Sergio comes over for a house-warming party after Fernando gets settled in, along with Iker and Xabi and Álvaro. They order takeout and drink champagne that tastes flat on Fernando’s tongue despite all its bubbles. Iker asks Fernando for coasters and sets their glasses on them, and Álvaro cracks a joke about how the Liverpool Spanish contingent are all playing in Spain now, and Xabi looks between Fernando and Sergio with an expression that Fernando can’t place.

Fernando has grown older, but in many ways he feels like he hasn’t grown up. He has increased in years but not in wisdom or bravery. He still thinks about Sergio, but he can’t remember the last time he talked to him. He still wants Sergio, but he has long accepted that you don’t always get what you want. He still loves Sergio, but he knows that he’s eight years too late.

He’s spent so long looking for a story that never really was. Maybe it’s time to write a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wrote this starting with Fernando telling a story to Nora and Leo, which led to him reminiscing about his almost love story, but then I couldn't incorporate his marriage into the fic so I was like, _oh well_. I know I never exactly explain how Fernando and Sergio drifted apart, and why Fernando is so reluctant to confess his feelings, and...a lot of the things. Honestly this isn't a very solid piece of writing, it's just kind of--floaty and perpetually hanging. I just wanted to get it out.


	37. Only for You (Ramos/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey.” Sergio keeps his voice to a whisper, but he still feels like it carries too loudly through the bus. “Are you asleep?”
> 
> “Yes,” Cristiano mumbles, his head not stirring from where it’s resting against Sergio’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the Granada 1-2 Real Madrid (El-Arabi 60'; Benzema 30', Modric 85') game yesterday.
> 
> This was a really quick write that's not as light-hearted or heavy as I intended. I had some...feels I wanted to get off my chest after the game, but I think they refused to be put down on paper (Word?) and this was my best attempt.

“Hey.” Sergio keeps his voice to a whisper, but he still feels like it carries too loudly through the bus. “Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Cristiano mumbles, his head not stirring from where it’s resting against Sergio’s shoulder.

Sergio smiles. “Oh. Sorry. Just pretend this is a dream then.”

“Why would I be dreaming of you?”

“Ouch.” Sergio clutches his chest. “That hurt.”

Cristiano turns his head so Sergio can see his face, the grin on it bright even in the darkness. “I thought you were tougher than that, Sese.”

“Maybe on the pitch,” Sergio says, and it’s supposed to be a joke, it’s supposed to be light-hearted, but somehow it weighs down the air between them.

“The pitch,” Cristiano repeats, lifting his head from Sergio’s shoulder, finally sitting up. Sergio had complained when Cristiano first leaned on him, but he finds himself missing the contact, missing the solid warmth of Cristiano against him. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” Sergio asks, confused.

“Hurt.” Cristiano looks at him intently. “You were tackled pretty hard out there.”

“You were tackled harder,” Sergio points out.

“I didn’t see as much of the ball,” Cristiano says, with a wry twist of his mouth.

“Cris—”

“I mean it. Dani has a pretty nasty bruise from slamming into the goalpost. Are you okay?”

“I’m pretty sure I have some bruises, but that’s not anything new.” Sergio puts his hand on Cristiano’s knee. “I’m sure you’ve had a lot more bruises than me over the years.”

“That’s because you’re off giving people bruises,” Cristiano says, his mouth curving upward this time.

Sergio leans in close so he can breathe the words right against Cristiano’s ear. “Should I give you some too?”

A miniscule shiver passes over Cristiano, one that Sergio doesn’t miss. “You say the sweetest things.”

“Only to you,” Sergio teases.

“I sure hope so,” Cristiano says, but there’s a weight in his eyes that Sergio has seen many times and yet is still helpless at easing.

“Cris,” Sergio starts again.

“Yes?”

Sergio wants to say something wise, something comforting, but what leaves his mouth is a meagre, “Hi.”

Cristiano gives him an amused look. “Hi yourself.”

“How are you?”

“Sergio, you sound like those conversation tapes that Gareth plays to improve his Spanish. I hate to break it to you, but my Spanish is pretty solid already.”

“No, I mean.” Sergio usually has no problems with expressing himself, but something about Cristiano makes his tongue tie itself into a knot. “Are you…hurt?”

“You know I didn’t suffer any injuries.”

“Are you happy?”

“We won,” Cristiano says. “Didn’t we?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m happy for the team,” Cristiano says after a beat.

“But you’re not happy with yourself,” Sergio says slowly.

“What are you, my counsellor now?”

“Cris,” Sergio sighs. “I’m just…”

“Just?” Cristiano prompts.

“I’m not very happy with myself either.” Sergio lets the admittance out heavily, like an expelled breath. “Or the team. We almost drew with – we almost _lost to_ – a team in second-last place. What’s the point of scoring six goals at home if we can barely score two away?”

“Sergio,” Cristiano says quietly, just his name, but somehow conveying much more than that.

“We have a lot to work on,” Sergio says, “but…our struggle is as a team, right? So we have to talk to each other about it.”

Cristiano’s measured expression doesn’t change. “Shouldn’t you be saying this to everyone tomorrow in the locker room?”

“I will,” Sergio says, “but you’re not everyone.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Cristiano says with a smile that is brighter in his eyes than on his lips.

_Only to you._

“I mean it, you know. I mean it in a personal way, but I also mean it in an on the pitch way.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’re…” Sergio says, and trails off. He reaches toward Cristiano and taps his chest, right above the _escudo_.

Cristiano raises an eyebrow. “I’m this?” he asks, putting his whole hand on Sergio’s chest, his touch warm through Sergio’s shirt.

“Yes,” Sergio says solemnly. “You are.”

Cristiano shakes his head with a fond smile. “You really need to work on your counselling skills.”

Sergio returns the smile. “You say the sweetest things.”

Cristiano’s hand slips lower, until it’s resting on top of Sergio’s. “Only to you,” he murmurs.

_Only for you._


	38. A Happy Time (Ramos/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is heckling Sergio not to drop this trophy, and to mess with them, he pretends to let it slip out of his fingers as they’re on top of the bus, only to actually lose his grip on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They look like the royal couple here. Also, let's not forget when, after Cristiano scored his third goal against Wolfsburg, Sergio [lifted him up and held him Titanic-style](https://youtu.be/rzrd2pBcIz0?t=9m3s).
> 
> Translated into Chinese [here](http://snchaoyan.lofter.com/post/25889a_b2f4e1d) by [snchaoyan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snchaoyan). Thank you very much!

Everyone is heckling Sergio not to drop this trophy, and to mess with them, he pretends to let it slip out of his fingers as they’re on top of the bus, only to actually lose his grip on it. Horror-stricken, he can only watch as the trophy slides from his hand and—

—then Cristiano hurries forward and grabs it at the last second, almost losing his balance in the process.

Sergio wraps his arms around Cristiano and huffs a breath of relief against his cheek. “I didn’t really mean to drop that,” he says weakly.

“Just like you didn’t really mean to drop the Copa?” Cristiano says wryly.

Sergio clears his throat. “It’s heavier than it looks!”

“Yeah, speaking of that, can you let me go so I’m not half-dangling off the bus?”

“But I don’t want to let you go,” Sergio murmurs, nuzzling his head against Cristiano’s neck.

“Sergio.” Cristiano is warm, but not in an unpleasant way, even in the humid Milan air. Sergio could stay wrapped around him all night. “At this rate, I’m going to fall off the bus.”

“Well, I can’t have that.” Sergio doesn’t let go of Cristiano, but pulls him back, arms still around him. He miscalculates how much space he has, bumps into something and falls over, ending up with a lapful of Cristiano, who’s carefully holding the trophy.

Cristiano gives him an exasperated look. “You’re really intent on breaking this in some way, aren’t you?”

Sergio offers a sheepish smile in reply. “I may be a little drunk right now.”

“A little,” Cristiano repeats skeptically.

“Or a lottle.” Sergio hiccups. “I mean, a lot.”

Cristiano smiles, a little amused and a lot affectionate.

“Cris,” Sergio whispers, like he’s telling a secret.

“Yeah?”

“We won the Undécima.”

Cristiano’s smile turns into a laugh. “I know, babe.”

“I scored.”

“You scored,” Cristiano says, eyes full of pride.

“And the penalty too.” Sergio hiccups again, remembers another Champions League game when they had a penalty shootout, when he had launched the ball, and any hope they had left, out into orbit.

“And the penalty too,” Cristiano says, and from the look in his eyes Sergio can tell that he’s thinking about the same game.

“Don’t think about that,” Sergio blurts out.

Cristiano’s eyebrows fly up. “Think about what?”

“The – the past sad times, when we’re in such a happy time.” Cristiano stares at Sergio like he has no idea what to say, and Sergio reddens. “Sorry, I’m a lottle drunk.”

“You are,” Cristiano says, but then he smiles, “and you’re right. We’re in a happy time.”

“And you took your shirt off again.”

Cristiano laughs, his eyes crinkling up in the way Sergio loves. Sergio reaches out and traces his fingers over those lines, and then the ones bracketing Cristiano’s mouth, careful and intent.

“Maybe you should next time,” Cristiano says.

Sergio blinks, feeling like his lashes are very heavy. In fact, he feels like his body is very heavy, and he leans against Cristiano, or rather, collapses against Cristiano, who puts an arm around him and pulls him close.

“Next time?” he asks, feeling warmth from both Cristiano and the trophy, although the metal surface is cool to the touch.

“Yeah, when we win the Duodécima.” Cristiano says it so easily, so confidently, like he knows for sure that’s something they’ll achieve together.

“The Duo…” Sergio has trouble saying the word for some reason. “The Duod…”

“You’re so drunk, Sergio,” Cristiano laughs.

“I’m happy,” Sergio insists. “We’re in a happy time.”

“A happy time,” Cristiano agrees. “A lottle happy time.”

“A lottle happy time,” Sergio repeats, and Cristiano gives a smile that Sergio chases after like a game-winning goal, leaving the taste of victory in his mouth.


	39. For You (Silva/Villa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva almost thinks his vision is failing him when he sees the Caller ID on his phone screen: _David_. It’s such a simple word, really, just a name, and yet, the weight of it presses against him and steals his breath like its owner used to. He knows countless Davids, Spanish Dah-veeds and English Day-vids, but there is only one person saved under just that name in his contacts, the Goliath of Davids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a video of Silva's [phenomenal free kick vs. South Korea](https://youtu.be/4JduIEIRtJY) and was hit by a wave of inspiration to write Silvilla. Make sure you also check out Villa's [amazing chip vs. Orlando City](https://youtu.be/H-mWW_w50gI).
> 
> Heavily inspired by [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3)'s works, especially [Snow Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3242849) and [something other than the desperation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4934224). The way she writes them makes me want to cry blood, but I cried this instead.

Silva almost thinks his vision is failing him when he sees the Caller ID on his phone screen: _David_. It’s such a simple word, really, just a name, and yet, the weight of it presses against him and steals his breath like its owner used to. He knows countless Davids, Spanish Dah-veeds and English Day-vids, but there is only one person saved under just that name in his contacts, the Goliath of Davids.

For a moment, Silva considers not picking up the call. But his hand is moving already, not governed by his mind but by the erratic thing thumping against his ribs, and his lips are moving already, shaping around the name that no longer feels like it belongs to him.

“David.”

“Silva,” David Villa says, easily, affably, like it costs him nothing at all. It probably doesn’t. Silva doesn’t delude himself that he means to David what David means to him. “I saw the game today.”

“The…game?” Silva repeats, slow and stilted the way his football never is.

“Against South Korea.” Silva waits for David to continue (he’s used to waiting for David), but David stops there, as if he’s waiting for Silva too.

Silva doesn’t make him wait, although his “Ah” is more of a breath than a reply.

“I saw your free kick,” David says. “It was really something.”

“Thank you,” Silva says, mechanically.

“No need to thank me. Just stating the truth.”

The truth. David is nothing but truthful when it comes to football, and nothing but elusive when it comes to anything else. It’s not that he’s a liar – he’s not, he’s quite the opposite, sharp and brutal in his honesty, unapologetic until he slices into something too tender, something that gives way. In reality, everything in Silva gives way to David.

“Silva?” The slightest note of hesitation climbs into David’s voice.

“Yes?”

“You…you looked good out there.”

Silva opens his mouth, as if to speak. Nothing leaves his lips, not a word or even a breath, and yet he’s left feeling choked.

“You all looked good out there,” David says, as if he has to make sure Silva knows he’s talking about football, about La Roja. “Try to keep the trophy in Spain, where it belongs.”

Where it belongs. Does it really, Silva wonders. They are no longer the Spain of the past. There is still a star above the crest on their shirt, but they are no longer the star-studded team that had brought home back-to-back European-World-European trophies, like they never wanted the country to stop singing. They have lost multiple stars since then, including the one he is speaking to now, and he himself feels closer to a meteor on a sinking path. Where it belongs. And where do you belong, Silva wants to ask. Where do I belong?

David clears his throat. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

A sound spills from Silva like blood speckling his lips, tasting bitter and metallic. With a start, he realizes that it’s a laugh. “I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

For you to get to the point, Silva could say. For you to tell me what you really want. “For you,” he ends up saying.

“Well, I’m here,” David says, and he sounds like he’s smiling, something that Silva yearns for even as it cuts into him.

“Right.” Silva’s voice sounds hollow to his ears. Maybe it doesn’t to David, he doesn’t know.

“Well, I was just checking in,” David says casually, like he’s looking up the weather or a recipe, something to consult at his convenience, and now that he’s remembered to do so, he can close the window and turn to something more important. “It’s good to know you’re doing well.”

Silva doesn’t know how he ever gave the impression that he’s doing well, but then again, David believes what he wants to believe. And Silva believes… He believes David. (He doesn’t.) He believes in David. (He doesn’t in himself.)

“I’ll let you get back to what you were doing,” David says, not apologetic like he was interrupting, but gracious like he’s doing Silva a favour, setting him free. Silva doesn’t want to be set free, doesn’t want to tear himself free of these shackles, even if he’s the only one who’s bound.

“Wait.” Silva has to swallow before continuing. “David.”

“Yeah, David?” he asks, like it costs him nothing at all to say Silva’s name, even though it costs Silva everything to say his.

“I…” I miss you. I wish I meant to you what you mean to me. I wish you didn’t mean to me what you do. I miss you. I want to be free of you – no, I just want to want it. I miss you. “I saw your goal against Orlando.”

“Did you?” David sounds pleased. He never tries to hide it when it’s about football. Or maybe only comments about his football matter to him.

“Yeah. It was…really something.”

David laughs, and Silva drinks the sound down even as it burns him. “You can’t even think of your own words to use?”

His own words. What does he have of his own anyway? What does he have that doesn’t belong to David?

“You looked good out there,” Silva says, taking a moment to hoard up another laugh from David, tucking it away like cursed treasure. “You…” And he is incapable of saying another word.

“I?” David prompts, almost gently.

Silva doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if he tries, and so he just closes his eyes and shakes his head. He realizes that David can’t see the movement, and he opens his mouth to say something but feels choked yet again.

“David.” This time, his name doesn’t leave so smoothly from David’s lips. He sounds hesitant, torn, so unlike himself. “I have a two-week break in June, and I was thinking that maybe…”

Silva doesn’t want to wait for David to continue, because he can think of too many maybes, more of them battering at his temples even as he pushes one down and cuts another one away. There is something to be said about the difficulty of trying to fight yourself; Silva is used to being David against Goliath but sometimes he doesn’t know how to be David against Silva.

Silva waits for David to continue, because that’s what he does: he waits for David, even though David never asked him to, even if David shows no sign of arriving. Silva waits, and this time David does show up.

“Unless you don’t want me to?”

Silva frowns. “Don’t want you to what?”

“Silva.” And the bite is back in his voice. “Come on.”

He replays David’s words in his head. David had never actually finished his sentence, but then again, David often doesn’t say what he wants, but rather, waits for Silva to infer it so he doesn’t actually have to ask. David doesn’t like to ask, and he usually doesn’t have to because he knows that Silva will answer anyway.

“Don’t want you to what?” Silva repeats, steel in his voice now although it’s soft, weary.

“I haven’t been to France in a long time.”

David doesn’t ask, of course. And for once, Silva doesn’t answer.

“I… Silva, you can just say it if you don’t want me to.”

I want you to, he thinks. I want you. I always have, and I always will. It’s not me who is in question here. It never has been.

He stays silent.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Nothing. Everything.

“I want to see you. In France. Or – I’d see you here, if you were here. I would—I. I want to see you. I do.”

Silva tastes blood again, but more acutely this time, and he realizes that he’s bitten through his lip.

“Are you…are you still here?”

“David.” Silva licks his lips, swallows the blood down. Talking to David always feels like reopening a wound, only this time the wound is corporeal. “I’m here. I’m always going to be here. I told you – I was waiting for you.”

David is silent for a moment. “Well, I’m here,” he says again, this time in a different tone. “I mean, I will be here. There. Unless you don’t want me to.”

“David.” It’s almost a laugh; it has to be a laugh, because if it’s not, then it would be a sob. “When have I ever not wanted you to?”

“I want you to too, you know,” David says. “I do. David, I do.”

Silva believes him. (He doesn’t.) He believes in him. (He doesn’t know what belief is anymore.) He tastes blood in his mouth, in the back of his throat, and wonders whether only his lip is bleeding.

There is only one thing he can say.

“David.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some cute Silvilla gifs as consolation:  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  


	40. After the Storm (Villa/Torres)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David is expecting a food delivery, so he’s holding his wallet when he opens the door. It drops out of his hand when he sees who it is.
> 
> “Fernando?” he asks, not believing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [aliccolo's]() [prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=91571#cmt91571) asking for a fic where Fernando is comforted over not making it into the Euro squad.

David is expecting a food delivery, so he’s holding his wallet when he opens the door. It drops out of his hand when he sees who it is.

“Fernando?” he asks, not believing his eyes.

Fernando bends down and picks up his wallet, handing it to him. David, still too stunned, doesn’t make a move to take it.

“Hi.” Fernando clears his throat. “Sorry, I guess it’s obvious I’m not who you were expecting.”

David finds his voice. “Unless you suddenly work for Spring Garden as a delivery driver, then – no, not exactly.”

Fernando smiles a little. “That sounds like an interesting job. Do you think they’d hire me?”

“Thinking of retirement plans already?” David asks, and promptly regrets the words when a shadow falls over Fernando’s face. Or more accurately, the shadow already cast over his face darkens.

“No, but I probably should.” Fernando looks away. “Seeing as how I’ve obviously outlived my usefulness on the pitch.”

Ah, and there it is.

“Have you had dinner yet?” David asks.

Fernando gives him a blank look, and then shakes his head.

“Well, I hope you like Chinese.” David opens the door a little wider. When Fernando doesn’t move, David gives him an exasperated look. “Are you coming in? You’re going to let the A.C. out.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

“I think I can guess,” David says dryly. “Now come on, get in here, unless you want to stand outside my house for the rest of the day.”

Fernando obediently steps inside and takes off his shoes, and then just stands there in his socks, looking at David like he’s awaiting further instructions. David stifles a smile and a shake of the head. Sometimes Fernando’s still such a kid, such a Niño.

“Here.” David gestures to an extra pair of slippers on the shoe rack. “Oh, I almost forgot about this.” He takes his wallet from Fernando, and then turns and makes his way to the living room. He doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, and he wonders if Fernando needs another invitation. It’s not like Fernando to be so uncertain, so hesitant. Then again, he probably isn’t the same Fernando David remembers.

He turns around to ask Fernando if he needs an embossed invitation, only to almost bump into him. Fernando reaches out and grasps his arm to keep him up, and a part of David almost expects Fernando to pull him closer, to put his arms around him the way he had done so many times before, whether on or off the pitch. He stamps down that thought with as much force as he can muster, but the way Fernando keeps his hands on him doesn’t help. Nor does the way Fernando look at him, something darkening his eyes to almost black.

David clears his throat and blurts out the first thing he can think of. “I’m sorry about the Champions League final.”

Fernando’s mouth tightens and his grip loosens. He lets go of David and, like that isn’t enough, takes a step back from him. “Yeah, well…” He shrugs, like that’s the end of his sentence. David understands. Loss is a universal language.

“You can always trust Real Madrid to ruin things, huh?”

Fernando laughs, and the sound is ragged but honest. “And to think, we almost could have been in that final together.”

“Almost,” David echoes. The word leaves a strange taste in his mouth. “Now, come on,” he says briskly. “See if you can make it to my living room without tripping over me.”

“I can’t help it,” Fernando says, that familiar teasing tone back in his voice. “I had some trouble seeing you.”

David rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. I see you’re as funny as ever.” He’s about to take a seat in his armchair, as per usual, but with a glance at Fernando, he chooses the couch instead. Fernando does too; he has the whole length of it at his disposal but he sits so close to David that their thighs press together. David could move away, but he doesn’t.

“So,” David says, after a moment. “Why are you here?”

Fernando casts his eyes to the side. “I thought you said you could guess.”

“I could, but I’d rather not.”

“I see you’re as tactful as ever.”

“Fernando,” David says. “Why are you here?”

“You know why,” Fernando says, still avoiding his gaze.

“Fernando.” His name, once such a familiar word, feels strange to say, like his mouth had forgotten the shape of it. “You…”

“I saw it coming,” Fernando says to the couch cushion. “I mean – I thought I saw it coming. But it still. It.”

“Hurt?”

“Yeah,” Fernando says softly. “It hurt. It hurts.”

He does look at David then, and the naked pain in his eyes makes David look away.

“It hurts,” Fernando repeats, his hand on David’s thigh, leaning in, eyes like abysses threatening to pull David down with him. That’s Fernando; they had coasted the highest of heights together, buoyant and triumphant, but they could not face the lows together. They were both too brittle, too bitter, made of sharp edges that cut into each other instead of fitting each other. It is that thought that makes David turn his face away.

“David.” He realizes that it’s the first time Fernando has said his name today. It comes out as half a plea, half a demand.

David forces his voice to remain steady. “Don’t tell me you came all the way to New York for a booty call.”

Fernando sounds pained. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

“If you want a pity party, then I’m not up for that either.”

Fernando tenses against him, and then suddenly he’s gone entirely, having stood up and moved off the couch. “So you don’t even care, do you?”

David is forced to look up at Fernando, whose face looks harsh backlit, his eyes black and freckles muddled. Fernando has always looked younger than his years, but in this moment, the burden the past years have left on him is all too evident.

“If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t even have let you in.”

“Then why won’t you—”

The sound of the doorbell cuts through the air between them like a knife slicing through butter.

“That must be your delivery,” Fernando says tonelessly. “You should go get your Summer Garden food.”

“Spring Garden,” David corrects reflexively.

“Spring Garden,” Fernando repeats with a twist of his mouth. “Looks like I can’t get anything right, huh? Not even a restaurant name.”

Sometimes David really wants to shake Fernando. This is definitely one of those times, but instead of doing that, he pulls Fernando down so they’re at eye level. Fernando stares at him with eyes like the heart of a storm, and David hopes that he won’t incite any lightning.

“I have to get the food.” The words come out in a rather breathy voice, stirring the miniscule space between them. “And then we can have dinner. Okay?”

Fernando’s expression remains thunderous. “I’m not going to run away, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” David lies, his fingers digging into Fernando’s shoulders, like he’ll disappear if David lets go.

The doorbell rings again.

“Go get your food,” Fernando sighs. “You need to eat properly. It’s not off-season for you.” He picks up David’s wallet from where it had fallen onto the couch. “Don’t forget this.”

David takes it, curling his fingers over Fernando’s briefly, and goes to answer the door. The delivery guy doesn’t seem to recognize him – at least, he doesn’t say anything other than “Spring Garden. Here’s your food. Enjoy.” – and David signs off on his receipt and tips him generously before heading back to the living room with his food.

Upon the sight of Fernando, David lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. It’s stupid to be relieved, because it’s not like Fernando could have gone anywhere further than the bathroom in the amount of time David was gone, but there’s a part of David that didn’t expect to see him there when he returned.

“It smells good,” Fernando remarks, having moved to the very end of the couch. “What did you get?”

“Mushroom beef, kung pao chicken and seafood chow mein.”

“That’s a lot of food.”

“Good thing you’re here to help me eat it.” David sets the containers down on the coffee table and takes out two pairs of chopsticks and spoons from the plastic bag. He used to always have extra utensils because they would give him two pairs every time, but he supposes he won’t this time. There’s exactly how much he needs this time.

“Were you going to eat all this yourself?”

“Well, not in one sitting. I like to have a lot of leftovers so they’ll last me.” David glances at Fernando, who’s looking at the food with rather too much intensity. “I didn’t invite anyone over, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried.” Fernando says it in the exact same tone David had used earlier.

David can’t help a slight smile. “Well, good then. Dig in.” Fernando doesn’t move. “If you’re waiting for me to serve you, don’t hold your breath.”

“David.”

He keeps his eyes on the Styrofoam containers. “I said I’m not up for a pity party. That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Fernando doesn’t say anything.

“Nando. It’s just that. I just.” David’s tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. He wants to comfort Fernando, wants to tell him blunted truths and kind lies, but he’s never been good at this. He’s always buried his own pain under defiant anger, pushed it down under sullen silence, and he has no idea how to soothe someone else’s. “I do, you know.”

“What?”

“Care.” A part of him wants to reach toward Fernando, touch his hand or arm or any part of him, make some sort of contact. Another part of him warns him to stay away, reminds him that this Fernando isn’t the one he once knew, that his hair may be golden again but that’s the only part of him that is.

“I know you do.” Fernando’s voice is quiet and pained, like a fading injury whose ache lingers in your muscles. “I’m sorry I—assumed like that. I know we haven’t… I know it’s been a long time.”

David frowns. He could say, you didn’t assume wrong. He could say, it’s been a long time but I still want you. He could say, I’m sorry you’re hurting. He stays silent.

“I just keep thinking about the past,” Fernando murmurs. “I keep thinking about how we had so much back in the day, and now… I know it’s not healthy to be dwelling on the past like that, but I can’t help it. I guess I’ve never been able to stay away from unhealthy things.”

David swallows. He wants to ask, do you mean _we_ as in Spain or as in _us_? He wants to ask, am I one of those unhealthy things? He wants to ask, why are you really here?

“David.” Fernando says his name like a touch; David can’t tell whether it’s a caress or a punch. “Please look at me.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been able to resist vices either. Or at least, not this one. He knows he shouldn’t. He does. The storm has left Fernando’s eyes, but there’s no light left in its wake.

“I’m sorry I just showed up like this,” Fernando whispers. “I know I should have called you or something. I just…wanted to see you.”

“It’s okay,” David says, and then, unable to help himself, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Fernando looks at him like he’s never heard those words before in his life, like he’s shocked anyone can be happy to see him. Or maybe just David. Either way, it makes something twist in David’s stomach, or perhaps somewhere higher.

“You haven’t…outlived your usefulness, you know. First of all, you’re not a TV character, so there’s no need for that kind of wording. Second of all, you’re not…you’re not unwanted, you know?”

Fernando blinks several times in rapid succession, and then lowers his eyes, but not quickly enough for David to miss the brightness in them, like the sun raising its head after a long slumber.

“I think about the past too. I miss it too. Sometimes things change in a way that we don’t want, but…something good can still come out of it.”

David thinks about Atlético, with the Caldéron not holding the grandeur of the Camp Nou but having a relentless, fighting spirit that called to the hunger in his very bones. He thinks about New York, how they started from scratch and built a team that’s turning heads in the MLS. He thinks about Fernando, who’s here now and still looks at him like they can conquer the world together.

“Jesus, David,” Fernando says. “You’re terrible at this, you know?” But when David looks at him, he’s smiling. “You should have just stopped at ‘I’m happy you’re here.””

“I’m happy you’re here,” David repeats, braver, and Fernando’s smile widens.

“I’m happy too,” Fernando says, soft. “David, I want to – can I—”

“Yes,” David says immediately, like he’s latching onto a through ball from Fernando, one that gives him a clear path to the goal.

Fernando bridges the last bit of distance between them, one hand cupping David’s cheek and the other sliding along his waist. His eyes still look like abysses, but they’re not drawing David into darkness, but rather light. His lips are soft at first, brushing against David’s like he’s getting a first taste of them, but then he throws himself into the kiss the way he throws himself at the goal: relentless and wanting.

David threads his fingers into Fernando’s hair, pleased that there’s enough to get a firm grip on. Fernando has him caged against the couch, which is rather uncomfortable for his back, but he doesn’t complain. He’s missed the warmth and pressure of Fernando’s body against his, whether in a celebration on the pitch or off it, here, Fernando overwhelming all of his senses.

“David,” Fernando keeps saying, raining kisses along David’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, hand slipping under his shirt, like he wants to touch him all over, know him all over. “David.”

“Nando.” Definitely not a punch. “You’re not unwanted, okay?”

Fernando pulls back slightly, but not enough to let go. “Hmm?” he asks, pupils dilated and hair mussed, a golden vision.

“You’re not unwanted,” David repeats. “Okay?”

Fernando’s mouth is slower to smile than his eyes, but it joins in soon enough. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come cry over how cute they are with me.
> 
> Favourite:
> 
> Does anyone have a gif of them from the match vs. Russia in Euro 2008? Or just any pics/gifs of them in general.


	41. Count on Me (Casillas/Villa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something surreal about seeing David’s face on his computer screen, even though it’s far from the first time that they’ve Skyped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=86707#cmt86707).
> 
> I mention these things in the fic, in case you haven't seen them:
> 
> David said that [he hopes Nolito can enjoy the same success he did with the national team.](http://www.marca.com/en/football/national-teams/2016/06/04/57532efcca4741e94e8b462f.html)
> 
> Iniesta said that [he misses playing with Xavi and Xabi Alonso.](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3631201/Andres-Iniesta-says-misses-midfield-partners-Xavi-Xabi-Alonso-Spain-prepare-defend-trophy-Euro-2016.html)

There’s something surreal about seeing David’s face on his computer screen, even though it’s far from the first time that they’ve Skyped. Maybe it’s because Iker just came back from training, where Silva had supplied a sublime through ball to Nolito, who had left Iker with no chance. It’s ridiculous, but for a second, Iker had almost seen another figure turning away to celebrate. And from the sudden tension in Silva’s shoulders, he doesn’t think he was alone.

“Iker? Oi, capitán?” David has always called him that, but oh doesn’t it sting to hear it now.

“Hey,” Iker finally says, softly.

David smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, always deeper around the left one. “Just came back from training?”

“Yeah.” Iker pauses. “How can you tell?”

David gives him one of his Looks. “You’re still in your training kit.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And you have a piece of grass on your cheek.”

“I do?” Iker runs a hand over his face hurriedly, but he doesn’t come away with anything.

“No.” David laughs. “I’m just messing with you.”

Iker scowls, but he can’t quite help the upward curve of his lips. “Just because your nickname is The Kid doesn’t mean you have to act like one, you know.”

“Aren’t you used to it? You’re surrounded by some actual kids now.” David’s grin doesn’t falter, but Iker’s smile slides off his face. David frowns, tilts his head to the side. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Iker lies.

“Iker.”

“I read what you said, about hoping that Nolito can do as well as you.”

“Okay…?” David still looks confused. “Don’t you want that too?”

Of course he wants their strikers to do well, wants their team to do well. He just wishes that David were part of the team. He should be, Iker thinks. He should be here with them. With Iker.

_You should be here._

“I.” David swallows and glances away. “There’s no point in talking about shoulds or woulds.”

Iker swallows too. “I…didn’t really mean to say that out loud.”

“It’s okay.” David gives a humourless smile, face still turned away. Iker’s eyes trace over the line of his profile, his lips yearning to do the same. “It’s better that you say these things than hold them in. Just don’t say anything to the press.”

“Why not? Andrés said that he misses Xavi and Xabi. I do too. And I-I miss you too. There’s nothing – I don’t see anything wrong with saying that.”

“Don’t you?” David looks at him then, fixes him with a sharp gaze. “You know he’s already received backlash about that comment, with people saying that he’s criticizing his current teammates. And it’s Andrés – he doesn’t have a critical bone in his body. You’re the captain; you can’t say stuff like that.”

Iker runs a hand over his face; it feels heavy, like he had forgotten to take off his glove. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Iker.” David’s gaze is still sharp, but his voice is soft. “You… I’m thinking about coming up to France.”

Iker’s head snaps up. “You are?”

“Thinking about it,” David says. “I’d have to see if I can squeeze out enough time.”

“I-I’d like that,” Iker says, through the knot that has suddenly materialized in his throat.

“Well, maybe I’ll only come if you win, like last time,” David says with a smile.

“Are you…threatening me?” Iker laughs.

“No, I’m just giving you some incentive.”

“You drive a hard bargain, David.”

“I think you can take it, capitán.”

Iker can’t hold it back anymore, the way that familiar title makes his face crumple.

“Iker?” David asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

He can’t hold this back either, or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He’s tired of having to hold everything back, having to be San Iker, when he’s never felt more weak or fallible.

“You should be here.” The words scrape his throat on the way out. “I wish you were here.”

David’s face doesn’t crumple, exactly, but it pinches in a way that makes something inside Iker squeeze as well. The skin around his eyes creases again, but in a different way from when he smiles; these lines look harsh and angry, the way David is mistaken for sometimes, when people miss the warmth and kindness under the dark scowls and cutting glares.

“Do you think,” David says slowly, “that I don’t want to be? If I could, I would be there in a heartbeat. But coulds belong with shoulds and woulds.”

“And where is that?” Iker asks, unable to speak beyond a whisper.

David is the one to run a hand over his face this time, slow and tired, his palm covering his eyes for the longest time, like he wants to shield his expression from Iker. With a start, Iker remembers another time he did that: two years ago, against Australia, when he had been in tears on the bench and didn’t want anyone to see. David has always wanted to grieve alone; they have that in common. Iker had held him afterwards, in his hotel room, and David had buried his face against Iker’s neck and kept it there for a long, long time. Afterwards, Iker found the shoulder of his shirt soaked through, and he had run a hand over the damp fabric, a patch that weighed him down like the star above their crest.

“I’m sorry,” Iker says. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t,” David says. He’s taken his hand away from his face, but he’s keeping it turned away from Iker. “Don’t be sorry. And don’t linger on shouldn’t haves.”

“It’s just”—He thinks, I know you would be here if you could, but like you said, would and could aren’t good enough. He thinks, so many familiar faces are missing and I think next time I’ll be one of them. He thinks and he says—“I miss you.”

“I know. You said that already.” David turns back to him, and he’s smiling. The lines are back around his eyes, still deeper around the left one.

“Did I?”

“Yeah, when you said that you miss Xavi and Xabi.”

“Oh, but I mean. I _miss_ you.”

If missing ever felt like it was with a capital m, it would be this time. He Misses David. He’s Missed David for a long time.

“I know,” David says again, softer, and then, “I miss you too.”

“Come here,” Iker blurts out, too close to a plea. “Come see us.” Come see me.

“I told you – I will if you win.”

“What if we don’t?” It comes out too vulnerable, but maybe it’s okay to be vulnerable when it’s David, because it’s David. “We’re not…we’re not the favourites anymore.”

“We’ll always be the favourites to me,” David says, firmly. “Don’t get all doubtful on me here, capitán.”

Strangely, this time it doesn’t hurt so much to hear. It still aches, but the pain is fading, like a healing bruise. He wonders if the pain of Missing will do the same.

Iker smiles. “How could I, with you to ease my doubts?”

David smiles back. “I’m always here to kick some sense into you.”

“Isn’t the saying to knock some sense into someone?”

“I’m a striker – I don’t knock, I kick.”

It’s such a…David thing to say that Iker can’t help a laugh, warm in his stomach and sweet on his lips. “I knew I could always count on you.”

“Not just could,” David says. “You can.”

Yes, not could but can. Not would but will. Not should but does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Euro 2008:
> 
>  
> 
> Euro 2012:
> 
>  
> 
>  Euro 2016:
> 
>  


	42. What Crazy Feels Like (Ramos/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio almost has a heart attack when he opens his hotel room to find someone sitting on his bed. For a second, he thinks that it’s some insane fan that’s snuck in – it wouldn’t be the first time – but then he recognizes that tall, dark-haired figure.
> 
> “Cris? What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Portugal's 1-1 draw with Iceland.

Sergio almost has a heart attack when he walks into his hotel room to find someone sitting on his bed. For a second, he thinks that it’s some insane fan that’s sneaked in – it wouldn’t be the first time – but then he recognizes that tall, dark-haired figure.

“Cris? What are you doing here?”

Cristiano lifts his head, slowly, and looks at him with a weight in his eyes that Sergio knows all too well. He doesn’t say anything, the corner of his mouth turning down, and Sergio makes his way over to sit beside him.

“Sorry,” Cristiano finally says. “Did I scare you?”

“Only a little bit. Not enough to scare me off.” Sergio puts his hand on Cristiano’s knee, because he knows that Cristiano likes the simple comfort of physical contact in times like these. “Are we sneaking into each other’s rooms now? I feel like a teenager again.”

That gets a slight smile from Cristiano, but it’s gone soon enough. “We’re not teenagers anymore,” he says, and the weight is there in his voice as well. “We’re not young anymore.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sergio says lightly, bumping his shoulder against Cristiano’s. “I’m still at the peak of my youth.” Cristiano smiles again, but it’s as fleeting as last time. “Although you probably shaved a few years off my life just now.”

“Sorry,” Cristiano says again, his voice heavier this time. His head falls against Sergio’s shoulder, like he’s incapable of keeping it up. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice muffled, his accent coming out thicker, the _r_ dragging out and catching in the threads of Sergio’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Sergio knows that he isn’t apologizing for startling him. He puts his arm around Cristiano, fingers curling around his bicep, where his captain’s armband would be if he were on the pitch. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s not your fault.”

Cristiano doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not your fault,” Sergio repeats, steel edging into his voice.

“Well, since I showed up unannounced on your bed, it kind of is, right?”

“You know I never mind when you show up on my bed, unannounced or not,” Sergio says, and Cristiano laughs. “And also, don’t change the subject.”

Cristiano raises his head; there is no trace of laughter in his eyes. “Did you watch my game?”

“I couldn’t,” Sergio says apologetically. “I had training.”

“That’s probably for the best. It’s not like it was worth watching anyway.”

“Hey, come on. It’s not like we had the match of the century versus Czech Republic, and you watched that.”

“Of course I did,” Cristiano says, a dent between his eyebrows. “It was your game.”

Sergio could throw his hands up in frustration. He does. “Well, it’s not any different for me.”

“It definitely is. You put in a performance worth watching.”

“Cristiano,” Sergio says, forcefully. “You’re always worth watching to me, okay?”

Cristiano looks at him for a long moment, and then, unexpectedly, his face crumples. Sergio watches, alarmed, as he puts his face in his hands. “But I’m not,” he says, his voice quiet, straining to escape the gaps between his fingers. “Everyone was talking about how I matched Luis’ record for the highest caps, and how I could become the first player to score in four Euros, and. And.”

“Cris,” Sergio whispers, unable to say more than that. He knows how much pressure Cristiano is under, as much from himself as from anyone else – from the relentlessness of the media, the demands of a club, the hopes of a nation – but Cristiano never lets this side of himself show. He never allows himself to be this open, this vulnerable, and Sergio desperately wants to console him but he’s afraid that he’ll just hurt him even more instead.

“Everyone was watching me today,” Cristiano says, his voice catching, like he has finally succumbed to the weight of their gazes.

Sergio doesn’t know what to say. He’s talked to a Bernabéu bursting with fans before, he’s talked to a dressing room full of champions before, he’s talked to Florentino Pérez and a roomful of directors before, but he doesn’t know how to talk to Cristiano when he’s like this.

Instead of speaking, he takes Cristiano’s hands and pulls them away from his face, pulls him up so they’re on eye level. Cristiano’s eyes are dry, but there are shadows around and in them that Sergio wishes he could chase away.

“Hey,” he says, swallowing. He means to follow that up with something, but he ends up just staring at Cristiano. He can’t remember the last time he felt so helpless; maybe the game against the Netherlands, or against Chile. “Don’t – don’t do this, okay? I mean, I know you can’t, I know it’s just…you. I don’t mean stop being you, you’re great the way you are, I like you the way you are, but it’s just. I hate seeing you like this. And I hate that I can’t do anything about it. And I hate how people are going to attack you for this and I can’t defend you against them the way I can defend on the pitch, and I especially can’t defend you against yourself. And I just. I.”

Cristiano has the strangest expression on his face. “Sergio,” he says, slowly. “You’re talking so fast I don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Sergio closes his mouth. “Oh.”

But Cristiano’s smiling, and finally, the smile is staying on his face instead of fleeing before Sergio can try to keep it with him. “So I’m great the way I am, huh? And you like me?”

“Of all the parts to pick up, you would hear that,” Sergio mutters, but the corners of his mouth are turning upward, in a different kind of helplessness.

“Sese,” Cristiano says, softly. “I—you…you’re a great defender, you know?”

Sergio grins. “The best in La Liga, didn’t you hear?”

Cristiano laughs and puts his head on Sergio’s shoulder again. “The best in the world,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the tattoo behind Sergio’s ear. Sergio puts an arm around him again, and they sit there like that for a long time.

“Cris?”

“Hmm?”

“I really have to ask you something.”

“Yeah?” Cristiano asks, idly tracing the Invictus tattoo along Sergio’s ribs, his fingers trailing from one phrase to the other, as if he wants to join the two halves into a whole.

Sergio has to fight not to let his breathing hitch. “How did you get in here?”

“I bribed a hotel staff,” Cristiano says easily.

“Really?” Sergio asks, and then, “With what?”

Cristiano rolls his eyes. “No. Iker let me in.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“‘With what,’” Cristiano snorts. “What do you take me as?”

“Well, at first I thought you were a crazy fan. Like a pitch invader but like, a room invader.”

“Room invader,” Cristiano laughs, and then gives Sergio a crooked, curling smile. “But who said I’m not a crazy fan? I’m totally crazy about you.” He’s still smiling, still playful, but at the same time, completely sincere, something utterly paradoxical and utterly Cristiano.

“Well, that makes two of us,” Sergio says. “I don’t mean that I’m crazy about me too – I mean that I’m crazy about you.”

Cristiano is laughing again, a sound that Sergio drinks down like sunshine made liquid. “I think you’re crazy, period.”

But when Sergio kisses him, he smiles against Sergio’s mouth, and if this is what crazy feels like, then Sergio doesn’t think he minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to end the fic after "Sergio puts an arm around him again, and they sit there like that for a long time," but the boys demanded to banter with each other some more. And who was I to deny them?
> 
> This ship is really growing on me. On another note, I just discovered this gif and it's amazing:
> 
> (Yes, that's Sergio kissing Cristiano's neck and then biting his nipple. Totally normal teammate behaviour, right?)


	43. Don’t Look Back (Casillas/Fàbregas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker and Cesc, from 2008 to 2016.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=124851#cmt124851).

**2008**

Iker had a clear memory of Cesc slotting in that fatal fifth penalty against Italy, the exuberant way he had raced off afterwards, like he was light as air and not weighed down in the slightest by the bated breaths of a nation. The aftermath of the game was a blur of embraces, a crimson tide of celebrations, but one sharp image that had stayed with Iker since was Cesc, draped over Iker like the energy had seeped out of him at last, confessing that he had never taken a penalty before. He had looked so young then, even more so than usual, and Iker had pressed their foreheads together and framed Cesc’s face between his hands, held onto him like a goal-bound shot and did not let go for a long time.

“It must be hard,” Cesc said.

“What?” Iker asked, although he thought he already knew.

Cesc tugged on Iker’s armband, which he had asked Iker to put back on once they were at the hotel. “Wearing this.”

“It’s not that hard to put on,” Iker joked.

Cesc stared at Iker with his dark, liquid eyes, eyes that held the innocence of youth but the understanding of age. “It must be hard,” he repeated.

Iker rolled his shoulders back, feeling the twinge in them, the weight. “It can be,” he admitted, “but that’s what I have you guys for, right?”

And Cesc broke into his sweet, boyish smile, so much faith radiating from him, as usual. “Right,” he said, pressing the word against Iker’s cheek with his kiss. “That’s why you have us. And me.”

They were too tired for sex that night, but Cesc stayed in Iker’s bed and slept pressed right against him, a weight that made Iker feel lighter and heavier at the same time.

 

**2011**

Cesc asked Iker if he minded him returning to Barcelona. The truth is, Iker wasn’t over the moon about it, about having another national teammate playing against him, about having _Cesc_ playing against him, but he knew Cesc was and that was what mattered. The media were having a party celebrating “the prodigal son returning home,” and he knew that was how Cesc felt: that he was returning home.

“I’m going to miss Arsenal a lot,” Cesc mumbled, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He was wearing one of Iker’s shirts; half-drowning in it, really, his hair having grown out long enough to hang in his eyes. He looked heartrendingly young and fragile, and Iker wanted to take him into his arms but felt, inexplicably, afraid to touch him.

“Of course you will,” Iker said, gently. “You spent some great years there. But there’ll be other great years to look forward to.”

Cesc was silent for a moment. “I’m their captain.”

“All captains have to leave one day,” Iker said heavily, thought of Hierro, Raúl, Guti.

“Not you,” Cesc blurted out.

Iker laughed, softly. “I will too. I’m not going to captain Spain forever.”

Cesc shook his head, his jaw set. “Not you,” he repeated, mutinous. “You’ll always be my captain.”

Iker didn’t know how to reply to that, so he kissed Cesc, whose mouth trembled against his for a moment before opening, soft and pliant like the rest of him. He kissed Iker with _always_ on his lips, and Iker only knew how to kiss back with _now_.

 

**2012**

History has a funny way of repeating itself, and four years later, it was watching Cesc take the fifth penalty versus Portugal. Iker watched alongside history, alongside his teammates, alongside a nation that had finally tasted the sweetness of victory and did not wish to relinquish it, as Cesc’s penalty ricocheted off the post – only to bounce in. Once again, Cesc charged away, tugged by teammate after teammate into a hug, but, like always, he ended up in Iker’s arms.

“I have something to tell you,” he whispered against Iker’s ear.

“That you’ve never taken a penalty before?”

Cesc laughed, the sound warming Iker all the way to his bones. “That I think we can really do this. Again.”

“Again,” Iker repeated.

“Who can stop us?” Cesc wheeled away, a grin as bright as a trophy on his face, still full of energy. Sometimes Iker marvelled at how much of it he had stored up, like he was always running on a fresh pair of legs while Iker tried to will away the ache in his. Cesc ran back to Iker and grabbed his hand, dragging Iker with him as he continued to run around like there was another half to play. “Am I right?”

“Cesc, I’m exhausted, I can’t run anymore.”

“Yes, you can!” Cesc exclaimed. “Come on, Iker. You’re not an old man.” He was laughing, still sweet and boyish, even though there was stubble on his jaw and a hollowness to his cheeks that had not been there before. It didn’t matter; he was still Cesc, still Iker’s Cesc. “Come on, come on!”

No, Iker thought, he wasn’t an old man but he wasn’t a young one either. But when he was with Cesc – well, maybe he did feel young after all.

 

**2014**

When the final whistle blew, Iker wanted to dig the sound out of his ears, wanted to dig this day out of their history. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, he thought, rather numbly. It was supposed to end, if not with them lifting this trophy again, then at least having come close. Another final; another semi-final, at least. Not—not this. Not two matches and having to pull the ball seven times out of his own net, each time weighing a little heavier, until he thought he couldn’t even pick it up anymore.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

“No, it’s not,” he heard a whisper in his ear, and then felt fingers carding through his hair, arms pulling him close. He breathed in, smelling grass and sweat and Cesc.

“Cesc,” he murmured, pulled down awkwardly because of their height difference. He was always the one to put his arms around Cesc, to tuck him under his chin, against his shoulder; it felt almost strange to be held by him. “Cesc.”

“Iker,” Cesc returned, arms tightening around him. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Iker dimly wondered when Cesc had become the one to comfort him, instead of the other way around. And then he wondered why Cesc’s silhouette was blurry, his features muddled, and he realized that it was because there were tears in his eyes. Four years ago, he had also cried after a final whistle, but those were very different tears.

“It’s going to be okay,” Cesc repeated, like he absolutely believed it. He probably did. He could always see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it just turned out to be an upcoming train. Iker, meanwhile, always tried to brace himself for the collision but was still caught up by it.

“Hey, Iker. Listen to me.”

Cesc was shorter, so they were never quite at eye level. Cesc used to look up to him, but this time he met Iker’s gaze evenly.

“We’ll do better next time,” Cesc said, like he absolutely believed it. Then he smiled, and Iker saw the old Cesc again, the one who looked at him like he was a hero; not a saint, but a hero, one not just to admire but to accompany. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Iker said, and almost believed it.

 

**2016**

Iker watched Cesc lead their team out of the tunnel with a feeling in his stomach he couldn’t quite place. He still remembered when Cesc made his debut for Spain, a lanky nineteen-year-old who constantly forgot to wear his jersey under his substitute shirt and looked at his captain with eyes brighter than Iker knew how to meet. It had been ten years since then – had it really been that long? A whole decade? – but Iker could still see the teenage Cesc with his nails bitten down to the quick and his hair a careless mop. Then he blinked, his vision clearing, and he saw Cesc now, his hair neatly swept back, his jaw shadowed, the captain’s armband dazzling against the crisp white of his shirt.

Once upon a time, Iker had dreamed of seeing Cesc in a white shirt, but it seemed that Cesc was not meant for white, was meant for red and blue, the colours that carried him from Barcelona to London to Barcelona to London, a trip that did not include a stop in Madrid.

They were in Madrid now, were playing in the stadium that Iker once thought of as home, but it was not his stadium anymore and this team, like the one in white, was not his to lead out anymore. This was a friendly match, but the twinge in his chest was anything but friendly.

He was substituted on for the second half, and Cesc slowly took the captain’s armband off his bicep and put it onto Iker’s, clasping the Velcro strap with such careful deliberation that it was like he was putting the last piece to some priceless puzzle. Iker watched Cesc’s dark head bent over them and felt an urge to press a kiss to his temple, a broken benediction.

Cesc looked up and gave Iker a small smile. It wasn’t his old smile, exactly, and his eyes weren’t as bright as they used to be, but there was something in them that made a pulse of warmth leap in Iker’s chest.

“To you, capitán,” Cesc said, like he was passing on a flame, or perhaps passing back the flame.

Iker put a hand over Cesc’s and squeezed once, firmly, before letting go. They went in opposite directions, Cesc toward the bench and Iker toward the pitch, but both their hearts still beat roja, the rhythm of champions.

Iker went toward their team and did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I wrote this in past tense; it wasn't a conscious decision, it just happened. I never write in past tense, but then again I think that works with this fic, given its nostalgic tone. Originally, I intended this to be a 5 tournaments fic, but then 2011 just happened instead of the 2010 WC, and then something in me just didn't want to write Euro '16, so... This happened instead, which I'm not unhappy about. It's always interesting when my writing takes a life of its own.


	44. The Way U R (Ronaldo/Kaká)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, on a whim, Cristiano makes a list of the things he misses about Ricardo, in no particular order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got hit by an intense nostalgic wave of "I miss CrisKa" yesterday, especially after a conversation with [ninexistent](https://twitter.com/ninexistent). I wanted to write something about them, although I didn't know what, and somehow this happened. I haven't written CrisKa in almost a year so this is pretty rusty.

One day, on a whim, Cristiano makes a list of the things he misses about Ricardo, in no particular order:

The way he smiles. Enough said.

The way he rests his head on Cristiano’s shoulder when he hugs him.

The way he always speaks up for Cristiano and means it every time.

The way his hair is perpetually unruly, no matter what he does with it, but is so soft when Cristiano runs his fingers through it.

The way he won’t accept Cristiano’s advice about his hair or clothes.

The way he is the only person Cristiano knows who uses correct grammar and punctuation in his texts.

The way he can place the ball exactly where Cristiano wants it, even when he didn’t even know he wanted it there.

The way this doesn’t just apply to football.

The way he gets sheepish when he says a particularly barbed remark, although Cristiano greatly enjoys his sarcasm.

The way he is thoughtful.

The way he is kind.

The way he is.

He doesn’t send the list to Ricardo, of course. But he keeps it saved on his phone, in a note simply named _ricardo_. And he sends a message to Ricardo, when it’s late and the reasons not to are trickling away along with his consciousness: _imu_.

There’s a reply from Ricardo when Cristiano wakes up. _Were you trying to say emu?_

 _no_ , Cristiano writes back, smiling. _y wud i randomly txt u an animal?_

_You randomly text me a lot of things._

This is not true, at least not for the most part. Few of his texts are random, although often he’ll deliberately try to make them appear so. He’ll send Ricardo a link of some viral video he saw or tell him that he saw an ugly cardigan in a store and thought of him, when he really wants to say something like _the m_ _íster was talking about trequartistas and I thought that there’s no one in that position like you, there’s no one in the world like you_ , or _my son asked me why we haven’t seen you in a long time and I told him it’s because Orlando is too far and I’m worried that it’ll really become Too Far one day_.

He’s never thought of himself as being bad with words, but he isn’t good at talking when it comes down to it. He can’t just…say things the way Ricardo can and regularly does. Once he tried to explain this to Ricardo, to apologize, maybe, but Ricardo had simply laughed and said, “I noticed that a while ago. And it’s okay. I know anyway.”

 _ur welcome_ , Cristiano replies. _what wud u do w ur time if i didnt bless u w my texts?_

_I have no idea, since all I do is sit around and wait for you to text me._

He wonders if Ricardo knows that he spends a great deal of time doing exactly that. Rather too much time, really, although he doesn’t actually sit there and wait for a ping from his phone. He might be washing the dishes or running through some exercises, but when his phone lights up with a reply from Ricardo, he does too, just a little.

 _I do look forward to your texts though :-)_ Ricardo adds, and Cristiano smiles both at his message and the dash in his smiley face. He’s the only person Cristiano knows who still adds a “nose” to his emoticons; it’s endearing.

_ofc u do, babe. my texts rock ur world ;)_

_Your insistence on using as little letters as possible certainly shakes me._

Cristiano laughs (out loud); he can hear Ricardo’s deadpan as he says this, can see the way the corners of his mouth would succumb to a smile afterwards.

_u can learn some txt slang 2, ricky. it wont kill u._

_No, it would just pain me._

_i wud think it wud be painful 2 type Everything Out Properly._

Cristiano’s thumbs feel tired just from typing the last three words. He doesn’t know how Ricardo texts like this on a regular basis. Then again, Ricardo wouldn’t be Ricardo if he didn’t. Cristiano pokes fun at him for his “grandpa texting” all the time, but he wouldn’t actually want Ricardo to change. Not this, or any of the other multitude of things Cristiano teases him for.

_u wud rather me txt like dis?_

Cristiano bursts into laughter at the word “dis.” He can just imagine Ricardo’s face at having to send a text like this, his forehead furrowed and mouth twisted. It’s probably causing him physical pain.

 _no_ , he writes back. _ilu the way u r._

 _I like you the way you are too_ , Ricardo replies. _Wait, does the l stand for like or love?_

Cristiano’s fingers freeze up on his screen, thumb sliding an aimless trail through the letters.

 _Jk ;-)_ Ricardo writes back. _I’m not that clueless about abbreviations._

And then:

_ilu 2._

Cristiano smiles.

 _I have to go for training now_ , Ricardo texts. _I’ll talk to you later._

 _ttyl_ , Cristiano writes back, and then, _xoxo_.

Ricardo sends back a row of _:-) :-) :-)_ faces.

 

He has five new texts from Ricardo later.

_I looked up “imu” on that urban dictionary thing Marcelo told me about before and I found out what it means._

_You can just tell me that you miss me, you know. It’ll save us from going on a tangent about animals and texting conventions._

_Not that I mind tangents. You know I enjoy our conversations, no matter the topic. (You do, right?)_

_By the way (or btw for you) please don’t ever “teach” me text slang again._

_I miss you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse ~~Cristiano's~~ my horrible text slang haha. I suppose I text more like Ricardo, although not actually to that extent.
> 
> Honestly Ricky [loves Cris](http://bleacherreport.com/articles/2628765-kaka-slams-real-madrid-fans-over-cristiano-ronaldo-comments-on-stars-future) [so much](https://youtu.be/-VX7SEM0R4k?t=1m13s) come cry with me.


	45. Still Here (Ramos/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio and Cristiano have a routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished an exam and I felt like writing some Sergio/Cris to unwind. I was looking for stories of them the other day and couldn't find many, so here I am writing one.
> 
> This feels like two separate stories that are totally different in mood and tone, but--ehh I think it works?? Hopefully haha.

Sergio and Cristiano have a routine. They have dinner together every Wednesday: home-cooked, alternating between their houses, although they usually eat at Cristiano’s because of Junior. Cristiano is actually a pretty good cook, although Sergio complains that all he ever makes is chicken breast and fish.

“When are you going to make me a steak or a pork chop?”

“You know too much red meat isn’t good for you,” Cristiano says, poking Sergio’s stomach like there’s flab there even though Sergio has the best abs on the team, thank you very much. Well, he glances at Cristiano’s stomach, which is very visible through his skin-tight white shirt, maybe the joint best.

Sergio rolls his eyes. “You sound like one of the club nutritionists.”

Cristiano grins. “Yeah, I was hired by them to keep an eye on you.”

“What’s the pay, an unlimited supply of egg whites?”

“If you’re good, you get to have the yolk too.”

Sergio puts a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder. “Am I good?” he asks, lowering his voice and his lashes.

“No,” Cristiano says, eyes dark but then they light up with a smile. “You should probably expect coal from Santa this year.”

“Hey, I’m pretty sure you’re higher up on the naughty list than me.”

“I never denied that,” Cristiano says, still smiling. “Now come on, the cod will get cold if we keep waiting.”

“Fish again?” Sergio groans.

“You should be grateful I’m cooking for you,” Cristiano tells him, setting their plates on the dinner table: fish, green beans, mushrooms and rice. A nutritionally balanced meal, like everything else Cristiano makes. He’s always so careful with his body, while Sergio is more of a fan of the eat whatever he wants and then burn it off approach.

“I’m very grateful,” Sergio says, and he means it. There are many great restaurants in Madrid that he enjoys, but his favourite place to eat is at Cristiano’s kitchen table, where there are often crayons and toys (left from Junior) and Cristiano’s beloved chipped mug with the anchor on it (left from his dad). “What’s for dessert?”

Cristiano gives him another grin. “You’ll see if you’re good.”

Well, Sergio has never particularly striven for goodness, but he supposes he’ll have to try now.

 

Sergio has always had a short fuse. Iker used to sigh about how he had the most hot-headed center defenders in the world in Sergio and Pepe, and Sergio just grinned and told him that he should feel privileged. Now, sometimes Sergio still catches himself listening for a command from Iker, but Keylor isn’t really the yelling kind of keeper. Other times, Sergio waits for one of Iker’s half-time speeches in the locker room, until he realizes that Iker isn’t here to give them anymore, that he’s the one who has to give them now. The captain’s armband around his bicep always feel tighter in those cases, more like a tourniquet than a badge of honour. The crest above his heart sometimes feels the same way.

Sergio has seen his share of captains leave Real Madrid: Raúl, Guti, Iker, none of them under good circumstances, their shoulders tense and their footsteps heavy when they walked away from the Bernabéu. He wonders, inevitably, whether that’ll be him three, four, five years from now. It’s not a train of thought he likes to have, but once he boards it it’s hard to get off.

“Are you going to head out anytime soon, capitán?” Cristiano asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Right.” Sergio clears his throat. “Yes, I am.” But his feet feel fixed to the ground, like his thoughts are anchoring them there.

“Sese?” Cristiano’s voice is softer now. “Is something wrong?”

Sergio glances around – the locker room is empty except for them – and even though he wants to reach for Cristiano, he refrains himself. “The team is doing well, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Cristiano says slowly. “I mean, except for being second place in our Champions’ League group.”

Sergio smiles a little. Leave it to Cristiano to focus on that amongst their six-point lead in the league and record-matching streak. “I wouldn’t mind drawing Juventus. We’re not going to lose to them this time.”

Cristiano smiles. “Very confident, are you?”

“We have Álvaro back now,” Sergio says, remembering the look on Morata’s face when he had scored that crucial goal against them in the Bernabéu.

“But they have Pipita now.”

“The team has changed a lot in the past few years, hasn’t it?”

Cristiano gives him a long look. “It has,” he says slowly, “that’s how football works, isn’t it?”

Sergio gives a hollow chuckle. “Sometimes I wish it wasn’t.”

“If people didn’t move, then I wouldn’t be here,” Cristiano says. “You wouldn’t be either,” he adds after a moment, like he had forgotten that Sergio didn’t come through the canterano. He’s not the only one. Sergio isn’t a child of Madrid the way that Iker or even Fernando were, but even though he’s an adopted son, he feels none the less Madrileño for it. He’ll always love Sevilla, of course, but Madrid is his home now, it has been for a very long time.

“People come and go,” Cristiano says, softer now, a little sad maybe, like it’s a truth he has resigned himself to more than accepted. “It’s how football works. It’s how Real Madrid works.”

Sergio can only say, “Sometimes I wish it wasn’t,” again, although he wants to say, _but I don’t like it_ , knowing that he would just sound petulant, childish. He can’t be those things anymore, now that he’s the captain of Real Madrid, now that he has the club to carry on his shoulders. He hadn’t realized just how strong Iker’s were until he had to bear the brunt of the weight himself.

“Sometimes I do too,” Cristiano says. “I miss Iker too, you know.”

Sergio stares at him, surprised and yet unsurprised at how Cristiano had known so easily what he was thinking about.

“And Ricky, and Xabi, and—the team is very different now, isn’t it?” Cristiano says with a quiet, sad smile. “Every time we take a team photo for the new season, there are so many missing faces.”

“Yeah,” Sergio says softly.

“But, you know, there are lots of people who are still here. And there are people who come back, like Álvaro and Fábio.” Cristiano reaches for Sergio and lays his hand on top of Sergio’s. “And I’m still here,” he adds with the lopsided smile that never fails to make Sergio smile back. This time is no exception, although the corners of his mouth feel heavy when they tug up. “We’re still here.”

 _For how long?_ Sergio can’t help but wonder. He knows that Cristiano wants to stay here, wants to retire here, but—Iker did too. Sergio does too. They may want things, but their lives aren’t up to them.

“For how long?” Cristiano repeats, and Sergio realizes that he had spoken aloud. “Well, for as long as we can. That’s all anybody can really ask for, right?”

“When did you—” Sergio clears his throat. “When did you become such a good motivational speaker?”

“I’ve always been a good motivational speaker,” Cristiano says, sounding affronted.

Sergio laughs and runs his thumb along Cristiano’s knuckles, tracing every ridge and groove. “Well, you’re an even better one now.”

“I know you miss Iker,” Cristiano says. “Not just as a friend, but as a captain. It’s hard to be the captain, right?”

Sergio thinks of watching the Euro final on television and Cristiano marching up and down the sidelines, a portrait of tension but also encouragement, never stopping his movements even with a bandaged knee and wounded hopes. “It is.”

“Well, you’re not alone, okay? I know I’m not your vice-captain, and Marcelo is a good one—”

“I know,” Sergio says, squeezing his hand. “I know I have you.”

Cristiano smiles. “Good,” he says, and leans in to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Real Madrid The Revolving Door and particularly venomous ones toward Florentino Pérez.
> 
> On a much brighter note, look how cute Cris and Sergio are here:
> 
> Power couple of Real Madrid:
> 
> Dessert after Sergio complains about dinner:


	46. Can't Wait (Rodríguez/Ronaldo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=192691#cmt192691). Takes place at the beginning of the season. I wrote this in August and just never posted it here.

“Nice haircut,” Cristiano says with a grin.

“Yes, you would know about nice haircuts,” James quips, and Cristiano throws his head back and laughs. James has missed that, his full-bodied laughter, everything from his eyes to his Adam’s apple joining in. James has missed his lame jokes, his warm eyes, him.

“Of course, I’m the master of style, don’t you know?”

“Is that why you painted your toenails on holiday?”

Cristiano just grins. “You want me to paint yours too?”

“Are we having a sleepover?”

Cristiano leans in close, his breath fanning across James’s cheek while James’s own breath is stolen from him. “I’d love to sleep with you.”

“Cris.” James clears his throat. “We’re in the middle of training.”

“What?” Cristiano leans away, his expression beyond innocent. “You were the one who brought it up.”

“Yes, yes, I’m always the one who brings it up.”

“You know it.” Cristiano winks. “Not only do you bring it up, you keep it up.”

James should be used to the influx of innuendos from Cristiano after all this time, but he still has to fight back the heat flooding his cheeks.

“Keep this up and you’re uninvited from the sleepover,” he mutters, and Cristiano sends him a wounded look.

“I haven’t seen you in a month and this is the welcome I get?”

James rolls his eyes but can’t quite help the upward curve of his lips. “You’ll get your welcome later.”

Cristiano grins. “Is that a promise?”

“Of course,” James says. “Just wait until training is over.”

“I can’t wait,” Cristiano says, a glint in his eyes.

James can’t either.


	47. Bottle Up This Moment (Ramos/Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio’s expression sobers. “Does it hurt?”
> 
> “No,” Cristiano says, but there’s a tension to his jaw that Sergio wants to kiss away. He almost leans in to do so, but something, maybe in the lines of Cristiano’s face or the set of his shoulders, stops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the Málaga game on Saturday. I wrote most of it during my lunch break at work because I had Feelings.

“Hey.” Sergio takes Cristiano’s bandaged hand and lays a kiss over his knuckles. “Milady,” he adds with a smirk, and Cristiano snorts.

“Don’t think I won’t hit you just because my hand is wrapped up.”

Sergio’s expression sobers. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Cristiano says, but there’s a tension to his jaw that Sergio wants to kiss away. He almost leans in to do so, but something, maybe in the lines of Cristiano’s face or the set of his shoulders, stops him.

“And your leg? Does that hurt?”

“Sergio, you’re starting to sound like the sports therapists. I’m fine.”

“You never know – maybe I’ll keep that option open as a backup career.”

Cristiano smiles at that, the first one Sergio has seen from him since the match. He wishes he could keep that expression bottled up, especially since he’s seeing it less and less these days.

“I didn’t even get to tell you – congratulations on your brace. Almost a hat trick – would have been if it weren’t for the offside.”

“Well, I already got a freebie, can’t expect to get two.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Cristiano says, and Sergio thinks _I’m not the only one_. “You’re always bailing us out. Didn’t you hear that they’re calling you Captain Fantastic now?”

Sergio can only think to say, “Isn’t that Steven Gerrard’s nickname?”

Cristiano laughs. “Yeah, I think it is, actually. Well, he has competition there.”

Sergio makes to touch the captain’s armband on his bicep, although he’s taken it off already. He feels like he’s still getting used to the weight and pressure of it, even though he’s worn it for over a year now.

“It looks like I have competition too,” Cristiano adds. “What are you on now, eight goals? You’ll be catching up to me soon.” He’s smiling as he says it, and the corners of Sergio’s mouth tug up in reply, a second nature response.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to get Pichichi this year. I have a good feeling.”

“I support you,” Cristiano says solemnly. “Actually, I think they should come up with a new award for you. The 92nd Minute Trophy or something like that.”

“That has a nice ring to it,” Sergio says, equally as serious, and they look at each other with grave expressions for a moment before bursting into laughter. Sergio wants to bottle this up too, the light in Cristiano’s eyes, the warmth of his laughter. This moment.

Cristiano stretches out his legs, putting his feet in Sergio’s lap with a raise of his eyebrow, like he’s asking, _are you going to stop me?_ Sergio pretends he’s going to nudge them off, but then he takes Cristiano’s right foot and props it higher, running his thumb over the curve of Cristiano’s ankle.

“Are you going to give me a massage?” Cristiano asks with a quirk of his mouth.

“I mean – I have to prepare for my backup career.” Sergio runs his hand along Cristiano’s leg, trying to check if he feels any swelling or strain in the muscles. He can’t feel anything out of place, but then again it’s not like he’s a professional. Maybe he really should do some sports therapy training.

Cristiano clears his throat. “When I said massage I meant sports massage but I’m not saying no to this kind either.”

When Sergio looks at him, that slight upward tilt of his mouth has turned into a full on smile. Sergio rolls his eyes, even as his own mouth is helpless against following. “Get your head out of the gutter, Ronaldo.”

“Yes, _capitán_ ,” Cristiano quips. He calls Sergio that all the time, usually with a teasing sparkle in his eyes that Sergio also wants to bottle up, but this time something about the nickname makes Sergio’s smile falter. “What is it?” Cristiano asks, picking up on it immediately.

“The game today… It wasn’t great, was it?”

The light in Cristiano’s eyes extinguishes, and the smile on his lips fades. “If you mean that we only won by sheer luck, then yes.”

“It seems that our luck has run out,” Sergio sighs, thinking about the end of their forty-game streak and how a new, winless one had been in danger of starting.

“We shouldn’t be relying on luck anyway,” Cristiano says, that tension returning to his face, jaw locking and forehead furrowing. That shadow in his eyes that Sergio hates to see is back, getting darker with each goalless game.

“Hey,” Sergio says softly. “Don’t—” _Don’t look like that. Don’t blame yourself. Don’t shut yourself away where I can’t reach you._

“Don’t what?” Cristiano asks, even though Sergio can tell he knows. They’ve had this conversation, or some variation of, many times already, whether they’ve said the words or not.

“Just…don’t,” Sergio says. It comes out somewhere between a plea and a command. Sometimes, when Sergio talks to Cristiano like this, he doesn’t know whether he’s doing it as his lover or captain. He doesn’t know who would be better, who Cristiano would listen to. It’s…it hurts, that he can’t help Cristiano.

“Hey, Sergio.” Cristiano’s face softens. “Sese.” He sits up, taking his feet off Sergio’s lap and leaning toward him. Their faces are only a few inches apart; Sergio can very clearly see the mole by the corner of his nose and the place in his eyebrows where the hair won’t grow back because of an old injury. “Don’t look like that.”

“Look like what?” Sergio asks, even though he knows.

Cristiano frowns. “Sergio.”

“Don’t look like Sergio? Well, that’s kind of hard since I am Sergio.”

“Trust me, I know. No one is more Sergio than you are.”

“Are you sure? There are a lot of Sergios out there.”

“But there’s nobody like you,” Cristiano says, so candidly that Sergio swallows and looks away. “And you shouldn’t feel like—like you’re not enough. In any way.”

“Cris,” Sergio croaks. “Cristiano.”

“Okay?” Cristiano asks, the light returning to his eyes, chasing away the shadows there.

Sergio takes a moment to remember this, to bottle it up like champagne for the most special of occasions. “Okay.”  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't noticed, they're most definitely my new Real Madrid ship. I mean, look how shippable they are!
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Seeing criticism over Cristiano's "slump" makes my blood boil. Apparently, if he doesn't score for more than two games it means that his career is over. Sergio in this fic is actually me; I had some major feels to unload as part of the Cristiano Ronaldo Protection Squad.


	48. When There Was an Us (Casillas/Ramos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker isn’t a jealous person, but he can’t help the flare of jealousy low in his stomach when he sees the picture of Isco kissing Sergio. He remembers when it was him with his lips pressed against Sergio’s cheek, remembers when it was him celebrating a final with Sergio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=271539#cmt271539) prompt.
> 
> This is the kiss referenced:

Iker isn’t a jealous person, but he can’t help the flare of jealousy low in his stomach when he sees the picture of Isco kissing Sergio. He remembers when it was him with his lips pressed against Sergio’s cheek, remembers when it was him celebrating a final with Sergio.

He and Sergio used to go to Cibeles together, and Sergio would grin as Iker wrapped the flag around Cibeles’ shoulders and pressed a kiss to her mouth. Afterwards, Sergio would ask Iker with waggling eyebrows when it was his turn for a kiss. Iker looks at Sergio doing their post-trophy tradition now, Marcelo by his side, every inch the proud, strong captain that Iker knew he could be.

And Iker is unbelievably proud of Sergio, who came into the team as a teenager eager to prove himself and leads them now having won every trophy possible. He knows that there is no better person he could have given the captain’s armband to, no better person to lead Real Madrid.

He just wishes that he could be there beside Sergio, that they could still be IkerandSergio, the captains of Real Madrid. Together.

 

Sergio receives a message from Iker following the Duodécima win. It says: _Congratulations!_

 _Thanks, melón!_ Sergio replies almost immediately, even though Iker saw from the live streams that they’re still in the middle of celebrating. _Wish you were here!!!_

Iker thinks and even gets as far as typing out _me too_ , but he doesn’t send it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this just reminded me of Seriker and how precious they were in the 2014 CL final and now I am a puddle of f e e l i n g s.


	49. Pull Me Back to Earth (Torres/Griezmann)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you told your parents that you have a–a boyfriend just to spite them?”
> 
> “Not just to spite them,” Antoine mutters. “They just… Look, it’s complicated, okay?”
> 
> “I have time,” Fernando says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this for [this prompt](http://football-kink.dreamwidth.org/1203.html?thread=178099#cmt178099) more than a year ago. I kept thinking that I would continue this, but given how long it's been I highly doubt it and I thought I'd post what I have anyway.
> 
> Hey, who knows, maybe posting this would inspire me to continue it!

Fernando stares at Antoine so blankly it’s like Antoine just asked him if he became a Madridista. “You want me to _what_?”

“Um,” Antoine says eloquently. “Well. The thing is…” He opens and closes his mouth a few times, looking like a goldfish out of water. Fernando patiently waits for him to continue, but he eventually realizes that, for the first time in his life, Antoine doesn’t have anything to say.

“So you told your parents that you have a–a boyfriend just to spite them?”

“Not just to spite them,” Antoine mutters. “They just… Look, it’s complicated, okay?”

“I have time,” Fernando says.

Antoine sighs. “They keep trying to set me up and it’s really annoying.”

“So you decided to tell them that you have a boyfriend?” Fernando asks skeptically. “That sounds like an…extreme solution.”

“Well, do you have any better ideas?”

“You could just tell them that you’re not interested in a relationship right now.”

“Fer-nan-do,” Antoine says slowly, drawing out each syllable. “They’re my parents. They don’t care what I’m interested in.”

“I’m sure that—”

Antoine ignores him and carries on like Fernando hadn’t spoken at all. “I mean, they think that they know what I want better than me, and they won’t listen to me. It’s like they think I’m a kid.”

Fernando almost says that he wouldn’t argue about the kid part, but he doesn’t think that would really help the situation, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“But of course,” Antoine continues. “They think that I’m not old enough to know what I want but old enough that I should apparently be settling down.”

“That’s parental logic for you,” Fernando says sympathetically.

“So you’ll help me, right?” Antoine asks hopefully. “You can’t let them rule my life like this.”

“Is that what I’m doing if I say no?” Fernando asks with a wry smile. “Helping your parents rule your life?”

“With a fist of iron,” Antoine says. “Well, four fists of iron, since I guess they have four hands put together.”

Fernando laughs, and Antoine looks at him hopefully.

“So, will you help me?”

Fernando hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help Antoine, but he isn’t sure that going along with his plan would really help him. Antoine is constantly floating with questionable ideas, and it’s Fernando’s job to pull him back to the ground. But if he says yes to Antoine now, then…

“Fer, please?” Antoine asks, looking at him with wide blue eyes.

“ _Don’t look at me like that,_ ” Fernando thinks about saying, or maybe, “ _did you try using this face on your parents?_ ”, but what leaves his mouth instead is, “Okay.”

Antoine beams, like Fernando had just given him the world. “Okay?”

Fernando already thinks that he’s going to regret this, but how could he turn down Antoine when Antoine looks at him like that? How could he turn down Antoine when Antoine needs him?

“Okay,” he repeats, and hopes that this won’t come back to bite him.


End file.
